


got a suit of armor on, you'll never see me cry

by vivacissimo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, Conquest of Westeros, Emperor Rhaegar, Every Targaryen gets a dragon, F/F, F/M, Family Reunions, Gen, King Jon Snow, Polygamy, Prince Jon Snow, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Targaryen Ascension, Valyria is still alive and kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27124210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivacissimo/pseuds/vivacissimo
Summary: Seven years ago, when bloody conflict erupted in the Valyrian Freehold, Prince Jon was sent North with his mother to keep them safe. Now at peace, Emperor Rhaegar Targaryen rides for Winterfell, to face the wife he loves still & the son he barely knows..Or, raised in the North, Jon struggles to find his place. He finds it on his journey home.
Relationships: Dacey Mormont/Lyanna Stark (minor), Jon Snow & Lyanna Stark, Jon Snow & Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen (minor), Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 64
Kudos: 126





	1. nothing seems to last

**Author's Note:**

> okay! law school has been super busy lately so writing time has been scarce. depressing. anyways i love good parents!R/L but also who is jon without metal grade daddy issues? i don't know & i don't want to know.
> 
> title from charli - white mercedes

_Dark wings, dark words,_ Jon muses to himself when he raises his face to the sound of a succession of ravens flying over the practice yard, searching for roost in the rookery. 

Such a number of ravens at once meant the news carried was extremely important, as the use of decoy birds was an uncommon practice, only adopted for matters of immense urgency. Jon shivers to think where the birds must have come from.

“Distracted, are we?” Robb teases, smacking the flat of his sword against the back of Jon’s calf. It is nothing, just blunted steel, but Jon stumbles all the same.

“Don’t do that, fucker,” the dour Prince responds, kicking at the offending weapon halfheartedly. The worry must be apparent on Jon’s face, because Robb pauses, and then lowers his sword to his side to indicate that he will be beginning a conversation. Robb does love his heart-to-hearts.

“Something the matter? And don’t say it’s nothing. Or else you’ll be calling the future King of Winter stupid, and that’s punishable by execution,” Robb jokes, smiling at his own jape.

Jon lets out a small huff at that. “Well, if calling you stupid is fit for beheading, then lop off my head. Gods know you’re as stupid as they come.” 

Robb squawks indignantly, falling back into his attacking position with false offense written over his face. Sparring with Robb is something he does so often that his muscles move into place before Jon even realizes he has adopted the stance of swordplay. They spin, slash, and howl in joy so easily, and Jon revels in the brotherhood between him and Robb. He has an actual brother of course, Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, who is well-versed in languages, war, and indeed seduction if the whispers of maidens are to be believed, but Jon has not seen Aegon since departing Valyria. Never once has he written or received a scroll that they may speak as brothers. Only Robb had fulfilled that role, and then later, Bran. 

Jon thinks of Aegon often, the silver-haired boy Jon once called his closest friend; how his life may be in Valyria, growing up in a complete home with his mother, and the sister and father they share. Thinking such thoughts only brings him suffering, but he can never stop himself. 

Jon’s great great granduncle once told him that melancholy followed him too easily. Aemon had said that Jon was much like his father in this regard, a comparison that Jon hated himself bitterly for cherishing. He had asked Aemon many questions about the Valyrian Emperor Rhaegar Targaryen that day, which Aemon indulged until the sun set. The next day Jon was so ashamed by the eagerness shown in his previous lessons that he vowed to never ask of his father again.

But when Jon received a letter by raven three moons later, composed for his eyes alone in the neat, slanted handwriting of his sire, he knew Aemon had written of his curiosity, and Jon had almost burst with gratitude to the old man. He never said so out loud, of course. That would be an action below his station, and Jon did try his best to be a good and proper Prince.

Ravens from Valyria were rare. The Empire was locked in bloody conflict, his father at the very center of them.

“Prince Jacaerys,” the Maester Luwin calls out as he hobbles to the side of the ring, leaning on his cane. He calls loudly, which stops Jon and Robb in their tracks. They exchange looks then, the fright of being in trouble mixing with the confusion of what they could have possibly done wrong. Jon wracks his mind, but cannot think of any recent indiscretions, besides the incident with Arya and the frogs, which he knew he had been careful about…

“Yes, Maester?” Jon asks, wiping the sweat from his brow. He considers reminding the man to call him Jon, but he doubts it would be anything more than a waste of words. The man was ever stubborn in his deference. He turns, and the Master’s face looks grave. Whatever this is, it’s very serious.

“If you would accompany me, Your Grace, the Empress wishes to speak to you,” Luwin bows, and Jon nods his head.

“You might take a bath before subjecting dear Aunt Lyanna to your stench,” Robb attempts to lighten the mood, and Jon cracks a smile. Robb’s face betrays his curiosity though, and a shiver makes its way up Jon’s spine.

“Indeed, Princes,” Luwin agrees, and Jon and Robb sheath their swords, returning them to the armory before making their way to the hot baths together.

“What might this be about?” Robb asks, once they’re out of Luwin’s hearing range. Jon worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, smoothing his curly hair drenched in sweat out of his face. He doesn’t know, he tells Robb, and stays silent as he contemplates during the time they spend cleaning up.

It is true that Jon does not know, but he has some ideas. The news is Valyrian in nature, that much is clear from the fact that he was summoned while Robb was not. Robb would rule the North one day, and there was little that happened that was seen as not being worth his attention. Crown Prince and heir to King Brandon, Robb would be a worthy King in his own right, Jon knew, and the thought made him sad at times. Robb would have all of Winterfell to his name, would marry a beautiful Queen and have children that would adore him. _King Robb the Just_ , the songs might sing of him. 

Meanwhile, Jon was called the Winter Dragon only to his face. Behind his back, he was named the Bastard Dragon, for he and his mother had been on their own for many years, although Jon was trueborn. Jon’s future was prophesied to be one of doom and suffering, destined to lose a great love and fight a great evil if Aemon’s stories were to be believed. His father believed these tales as well, and had sent Jon to the North when he was still a child to prepare for such a fate.

Seven years had passed hence, and Jon was nearly a man grown, skilled with every weapon in the armory and ferociously well-read, yet he was no more certain of who he was meant to be one day. He would not succeed his father as the ruler of Valyria, although neither would Aegon. His father had been named the Valyrian Emperor in a time of intense strife, chosen by consensus of the dragonlords to unite them behind his wisdom and strategic mind. The wars of Essos had finally ended, the last of the pretenders dead, and a time of peace had been ushered in by House Targaryen a mere two years before. Rhaegar would carry the hard-won mantle of Emperor his entire life, but upon his death, the Targaryen titles would revert to those of mere dragonlords, albeit more prosperous than any other House of their land. 

The Valyrian concepts of rule did not translate well into the Common Tongue, so Jon was called Prince and his mother Empress, when no such titles normally existed in the Valyrian Freehold. 

Clearing his mind of such thoughts, Jon rushed to prepare himself to meet with his mother. She did not enjoy waiting, an impatience King Brandon shared, so Jon tried to never keep them stalled.

When he enters his mother’s solar, she is smoothing out a paper in front of her, reading it over attentively. She looks up, and smiles kindly at him. “Little pup, how handsome you look when you are freshly bathed and dressed,” she compliments him, and he kisses her cheeks in greeting.

“Thank you, Muna,” he takes a seat at the side of the table closest to her, “what news have you?”

She frowns, and takes Jon’s hands in hers. She squeezes them and looks into his eyes, searching for something. Jon’s stomach flips. His mother is the bravest woman he knows, and if she is afraid of something then he would be wise to fear it as well.

“Jon,” she begins, her voice shudderingly weak, and she shuts her eyes tightly prior to opening them once more. They are watery when he faces them again, and he fears the worst, “I have somber news for you. Your father’s wife, the Princess Elia, has gone to the Gods.”

Jon merely breathes out. He scarcely remembers Elia, as she was sickly and often bedridden even when he was a child, and he has not seen her for many years. Still, she was a good friend to his mother, who wrote to Elia twice as often as she wrote to her husband. Jon reaches out to hug her, and she returns the embrace, crushing his ribcage as she collapses against him. Her grief is clearly enormous, and Jon tentatively rubs her back, unused to seeing her in such a state.

His mother certainly gave into deep sadness at times, perhaps from thoughts of Jon’s father, but she always tried to hide it from him, as if he should never see her in such moments. That was aggravating, but to feel her weep against him is much the worse. He wishes Uncle Benjen or Lady Mormont was here, who would both know how to help or what to say.

His mother gathers herself, parting from Jon to rub at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. 

“I am sorry, Mama,” Jon attempts to provide consolation, “I have always heard that she was a good woman, and I know that she, at least, treated you well.” Lyanna smiles a watery smile, one touched by uncertainty. _She never likes when I speak badly of him, although he sent her away._

“That is not all, sweet boy,” she continues, once she has composed herself. Jon straightens his back. “Your father rides for Winterfell. Valyria is at peace, one we must pray to be lasting, and we will return with him.”

Jon’s hands slide into his lap. His mother does not reach out to touch him. She understands him so well, his kind and brash mother who loves him. She sits quietly with him as he gathers his thoughts.

“When will he come,” Jon finally asks, embarrassed by his reaction. 

“He is already on his way,” she replies, a hint of happiness in her cheeks, that she tries to hide on his behalf. “Likes he will arrive in a moon and a half, which gives us much time to prepare for such a visit. I do not believe we will stay long after that, for without Elia to govern as Regent a swift return will be necessary. These will be some of our last weeks in Winterfell, my darling, so we must make the most of them.” 

Jon nods, but cannot find words to express his feelings. Indeed, he is unsure what his emotions even are. The two sit in silence for some time, and his mother lights a candle when the light begins to fade from the room. 

The bell for the supper meal rings, and Jon makes to rise, grateful for a reason to leave and be on his own. He does his best thinking on his own. She stops him before he can depart, though, and speaks once more. “Jacaerys...you must know that you are my greatest love in this world. If, when your father arrives, you wish with all your heart to remain in the North, then know that I will never let it be that you are taken against your will. I know how dearly you care for your Stark family, which has been a balm to a poor mother’s heart all these years. I did not want to leave Winterfell at first either, when your father first came for me, but I came to love Valyria most dearly. You are a Targaryen in your blood, and I have always known that you have felt out of place here, at times,” she finally breathes deeply, and sets a hand on Jon’s shoulder, “so whatever you wish for, I will support you.”

Jon smiles then, his eyes crinkling. He gathers her in his arms and hugs her gratefully, which she returns. The candle blows out, leaving them in darkness, but neither of them let go for some time.  
.  
.  
.

Dinner had passed by uneventfully, Arya staying by his side and pestering him with questions about the bloody frogs again. He loves his little cousin dearly, though, so he promises to take her again to catch them one night.

The frogs only come out at night, and catching the slippery little beasts is an impossible task that makes Arya shriek in delight. She had smuggled a few back into the castle, and she was damn lucky Jon had been the one to find them and return them to their home in the hot springs of the Godswood before anyone else discovered the ill-gotten pets.

“When should we go?” Arya asks breathlessly, interrupting one of the serving girls attempting to shove her ample breasts in Jon's face as she spooned him potatoes, and her laughs as he loops an arm around Arya to hug her close.

“Oh, Arya,” he says, unbearably fondly, “I promise we will go soon, but for now, might you focus on finishing your stew? If you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll be short forever.” She seems doubtful, but digs in. Uncle Ned looks at Jon approvingly when he sees her eating well at his encouragement, and Jon nods in return. 

Jon indulges Arya to an outrageous degree. Uncle Brandon always laughs heartily at their antics, and bellows how similar the two are to how Jon’s grandfather, King Rickard, raised his mother Lyanna. Said mother is now speaking in hushed tones with Uncle Brandon and Eddard, and they all look equally concerned. The King even carries a hint of anger in his face, and his eyes turn meaningfully to Jon himself for a short moment. Jon withdraws his arm from Arya, finishing his meal both quickly and quietly.

Robb is thankfully busy speaking to one of the Winter Lords on some matter of governance, and Jon slips out of the hall without bidding a good night to anyone.

“Ghost!” he calls once he is out in the cold air of the training yard, his breath taking the form of white clouds in front of him. He shivers, but nonetheless takes solace in the brisk air. The night is still, no breeze or noise to interrupt the endless cover of darkness.

Before a minute passes, a comet of white fur jumps on Jon, standing up on his hindquarters and nosing at Jon’s with his disgusting wet snout. “No, boy,” Jon laughs, pushing Ghost back onto all fours and rubbing the pet’s ears. Ghost is always silent, his white coat gleaming in the moonlight, red eyes alight with his pupils blown wide. Jon feeds him the scraps of meat he saved from dinner, and Ghost slurps them down with unrestrained zeal. 

His wolf eats like a hulking man - it is not surprising, considering how fast Ghost grows. Not even a year old, he comes up to Jon’s hip already, and will only get bigger. Ghost is the biggest of the wolves, a fact Jon takes great pride in. He spent the first few moons of the pup’s life attached to him like a mother might be, feeding him milk and food from his own hands, learning him well, because Ghost could not speak in the ways that the other direwolves could.

When he first began dreaming as the wolf, he thought it was only a result of how much time they spent together, a natural extension of the hours he dedicated to the white wonder in his waking moments bleeding into his sleeping ones. When he found a pile of dead squirrels in the exact place he had dreamed of killing them, deep in the Godswood, Jon began to reconsider...

He never had such dreams with Snowstorm, although he loves the beast in equal measure as he does Ghost. Pale, silver Snowstorm had hatched from her egg within days of being placed in the cradle with Jon. To hear his mother tell it, she had woken at the earliest light with great fear, as he usually cried in the middle of the night for her breast, and she had rushed to his side only to find the two entwined, sleeping soundly, chests rising and falling in tandem.

It was to Snowstorm that Jon went now, and Ghost accompanied him with no more than the padding of his paws to indicate he followed. Ghost and Snowstorm had at first been wary of each other, but when the wolf dreams started, his fire breathing bondmate suddenly ceased her sneers and growls at the pup. Now, when Jon walks into the pit that houses his pale dragon, Snowstorm merely tilts her head from where it rests on her arms. _She was sleeping_ Jon realizes, and then approaches slowly.

Even after all this time together, Snowstorm still dislikes quick movements. No matter. Jon is nothing if not patient. His mother avoids the dragon because she is impudent by nature. Jon teases her about this, to which she scoffs and insists that other dragons had taken a fancy to her in the past.

Other dragons being Balerion, most likely. His father’s infamous beast, who blew black fire so dark some said it would blind you if it did not burn you. As a child, Jon had not seen much of Balerion, whose nest was in the smoking mountains abutting the Targaryen lands. His father rarely rode for the sake of it, and the Black Dread largely flew free. 

He would be seeing them soon, though. Both his father and the dragon.

“You will finally see another of your kind,” Jon tells Snowstorm, pulling a pail of fish from the side to feed her with. Snowstorm huffs, the wind ruffling Ghost’s fur from where the wolf sits next to Jon. “And I will have a father,” he whispers, apprehension wound tight in his chest.

“I barely remember his face,” Jon admits, after spending a few minutes throwing fish into the dragon’s cavernous mouth, “and I fear we will disappoint one another.” Snowstorm looks at him with an almost curious expression. Then she turns her great big face and touches Jon’s leg with her nose. Jon smiles at the gesture.

“You should be excited, Snow,” he rubs the beast’s nose, “dragons thrive best when they are among each other. Perhaps you two will be friends.”

It is funny to think of Balerion, scourge of the enemies to Valyria, big as a castle, older than even Aemon, having a _friend_ , and Jon chuckles to himself.

Snowstorm rustles her wings. That means she is restless. He may not have the dreams with Snowstorm, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t connected on a level only they can understand.

In this case, the message could not be more clear.

“Yes, Snow,” he grins almost wickedly, “I think you’re right. Let’s go flying.”  
.  
.  
.

“Gods be good, I’ve gotten old,” Lyanna laments, peering at herself in her smallclothes in the polished glass. The gowns prepared for Rhaegar’s arrival were finished only this morning after weeks of fittings, and the smoothest and simplest of all the black concoctions lies discarded on her bed. 

So does Dacey, whose hackles rise at Lyanna’s whining.

“Please, Lyanna, do not have us speaking as maidens afraid of displeasing our lord husbands on our first night,” she scoffs, and Lyanna turns to her with her hands on her hips.

“Easy for you to say,” she responds hotly, “for you have never seen my husband. Rhaegar the Beautiful, they call him. Rhaegar the Noble, the Valiant. It’s ridiculous.”

“I may have never seen him, but I see you now, and you make me wish I was born with a member between my legs that I might be your husband,” Dacey simpers.

“You are quite wicked,” Lyanna leers back, and turns back to her reflection. She sighs once more, and Dacey has had enough.

“Lyanna,” she says quite seriously, sitting up in the bed, “you have had but the one child, you’ve spent the last seven years riding and fighting your body into what I see before me now, and what’s more, you are a Stark of Winterfell. You cannot possibly think you are not a feast for the eyes. Much the less, who is to say he is even still beautiful? Time has passed. Perhaps he has grown horns.”

Lyanna and Dacey chuckle at the joke, and Lyanna dons her shift so that she is somewhat decent before taking a seat on the bed. They sit in contemplation, something heavy hanging in the air, when Dacey speaks again.

“How many times have you let me have you in these very chambers,” Dacey says softly, “were you thinking of him every time?”

Lyanna considers her response. “I rarely thought of him in such moments,” she replies honestly, “because that brought me great grief. You were not a replacement for him, Dacey. I took you for I wished to, and because we understand one another. I love you, but not as I love him.”

Dacey smiles sadly. “Nor do I love you in such a way, dear Lyanna. But you never spoke of him. Shall we speak of him now?”

Lyanna shivers. She allows the sadness to sweep over her, the way it always does when she dwells on Rhaegar. They have been apart for so _long._

It is more bearable now that there is an end in sight. Lyanna decides to try.

“When he first came to Winterfell, I did not...desire him, or any husband. I was half a wolf, and I wished for my freedom. He came to my bed that first night, and he gave my body pleasure, but I did not allow him to touch my heart, although he sorely wished to. It took time, patience, and forgiveness from both of us. When Jon was born, I bled so much I thought I would die, and he stayed by my side the entire while. He told me he loved me then, the fear strong on his face, and when I came back to myself, everything had changed. Rhaegar and I had always enjoyed our bed play, but it was ever the better after Jon came. I had learned the Valyrian language and ways better by then, and when I began more duties as befit my station, I found my place. One day I woke up in his arms and realized I didn’t need to protect myself any longer. That I could trust him after all. After that, there was only joy between us, all the way until I returned to Winterfell.”

She looks to Dacey then, their eyes meeting. The warrior woman smiles charmingly at Lyanna. “You two are quite a tale. Will he be upset to know that you have taken a lover?”

Lyanna shakes her head immediately. “Never. He had Princess Elia all this while, and so I had every right to take a paramour myself. He could not begrudge me such a comfort.” 

Too late Lyanna sees the glint in Dacey’s eyes, and realizes the turn Dacey’s intentions have taken.

Dacey places her hand on Lyanna’s thigh, and leans in, eyes fixed on Lyanna’s mouth. Smiling roguishly, she speaks suggestively, “well, then, shall we give him one last thing to not begrudge you? As a farewell for my Empress of Valyria?”

Lyanna rolls her eyes, and kisses Dacey’s mouth to stop her infernal flirting. 

She’s nervous, and she is not too proud to admit it. She wishes to please Rhaegar. She also wishes to smack him across the face for leaving her alone all these years, and for Jon, who has endured jokes of bastardry all this time, each successive jape adding to the oppressive weight on her son’s shoulders. She knows it was not Rhaegar’s fault, but she bears anger for the besmirching of her son’s good name. That of Targaryen, but also of Stark.

Dacey will take her mind off this for a time, Lyanna thinks distantly. She will deal with her beloved when he arrives. For now, she spreads her thighs to Dacey’s eager mouth, and sings a song for her lover one last time.  
.  
.  
.

The Emperor’s party is sighted moving at first light, on what will soon become an unseasonably sunny day. A summer snow is falling, blanketing Winterfell in a sheen of shining white that Jon thinks displays an impressive effect. His father has been to Winterfell before, of course, to marry his mother, but nonetheless it is good that his home of the last seven years is looking its best. “Seems he’s eager to see you,” Robb elbows Jon and jokes. Jon scowls, and Robb makes himself scarce as they prepare to greet the royal Valyrian party.

Bran comes sliding down the roof of the armory breathlessly as Jon makes his way to the yard. “I saw the dragon,” he excitedly exclaims, “I saw Balerion!” His mother cuffs his ears for climbing, but even that does not take the smile off the boy’s face.

Jon takes his place next to his mother in the welcoming line, when the sun is at its zenith in the sky. The keep is filled with every Northerner of import who lives within a day’s ride of Winterfell, but Jon does not think it false to say that Empress Lyanna shines above the rest. Her lips are painted red and her gown is black, in mourning for the late Martell Princess, but she wears a necklace wrought of silver and obsidian on her low neckline, and a crown of the same. A cloak in the red and black of House Targaryen completes her impressive figure. She rarely wears a crown, but today she does, although Jon doesn’t. He has long outgrown the circlet he brought with him as a child, and a new one was never made. 

Jon also wears all black, as he normally does. He touches his mother’s hand when she offers it, and is grateful for the contact. She must know how his heart goes quick, so fast it could be a bird’s wing beats in his chest. 

“Oh pup,” she whispers, touching his face, “all will be well soon. Remember my words.” Jon gives her a tight smile, and turns to stand as tall and proud as he is able to. Arya bustles into the line behind him with a helmet on, and he shares a conspiratorial smile with her. 

They had gone frog hunting a fortnight prior. He had promised they would go once more before his departure, and she had thrown her skinny little arms around his neck when he made such a promise. When he mentioned that they might invite Sansa alongside them, she fumed and punched him before realizing he was jesting. 

The memory puts a smile on his face. It falls off quickly, because suddenly the entire _sun_ disappears.

Balerion is truly magnificent, and also terrifying. The crowd gasps, and some of them duck, but Lyanna closes her eyes and turns her face to the sky. She grasps Jon’s hand, and they share a moment that the others could not.

Snowstorm was already the size of a small house when Jon brought her to Winterfell. She has only been large enough for Jon to truly ride through the skies for two years now, but all of Winterfell avoids her like she carries disease. Balerion makes Snowstorm look like a simple lizard. Less, even.

Arya whoops in joy and the Starks all laugh. It loosens the atmosphere, and barely half an hour passes before the herald announces the royal party.

“Introducing, Emperor Rhaegar of House Targaryen of Valyria, the First of His Name!” the man yells. He goes on to list Jon’s father’s extended titles, but the noise has become a buzz in his ears.

Rhaegar Targaryen rides into Winterfell, a small party of twenty men at his back. The black stallion he sits astride is formidable, but the man himself, clad in black armor with red rubies interwoven, is even more impressive.

Everyone kneels, except for Jon, his mother, and Uncle Brandon. They hang their heads in deference as Rhaegar dismounts, and the man approaches the Winter King, his red cloak swinging behind him.

“Your Grace,” Uncle Brandon says gruffly, taking Rhaegar’s hand and lifting his head.

“Goodbrother, I see Winterfell flourishes beneath your steering,” Jon’s father replies, his voice deep as iron. The yard is silent for a moment, before Brandon declares, "ah, we have missed your flattery over the years. All rise!” to all those present, who stand up off their creaking knees.

Jon’s mother and father face each other for the first time in many years, and Lyanna looks wobbly. She outstretches her hand, and Rhaegar brings it to his mouth to leave a kiss on her knuckles without breaking their gaze.

“My love,” the man says, restraint in every word of High Valyrian that only the three of them understand, “to look upon you once again is the greatest joy. You have hardly aged a day.” 

“Oh, Rhaegar,” she breathes more than speaks, and those are the only words that pass her lips. Her hand that is still held against the Emperor’s lips tightens, going almost white, before she remembers herself, and bows away.

Jon’s father looks at him then, and he’s at a loss for words. “Your Grace,” is all he manages to say, keeping his voice steady, before holding his hand out. Rhaegar ignores it, pulling off a leather glove, and cupping Jon’s face from where he towers over Jon.

“Jacaerys,” he says smoothly, reverting to the Common Tongue with his lilted Valyrian accent that Uncle Aemon also speaks with, “I can hardly believe my eyes. You are almost a man grown now.”

The rest of the introductions pass quickly, which Jon is grateful for. Before he knows it, his father introduces his own party, which includes Sers Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, and Barristan Selmy, all legendary figures in Westeros who are now part of his father’s sworn shields. Rhaegar won their loyalty in the time he spent in Westeros before Jon was born, and to see such men in the flesh now that he is old enough to understand what their names mean is beyond belief. Robb’s eyes go so wide, but Jon does not tease for his eyes are likely much the same.

“Gods, it is cold,” Ser Arthur finally says from where he stands next to a beaming Lady Ashara, Jon's favorite aunt, shrugging his cloak closer. King Brandon cracks a familiar smirk at that, “well, let’s not allow your old bones to rattle too much, Dayne! Allow us to show you your chambers so that you might prepare for tonight’s feast. Winterfell is yours.”

They make their way inside, and Jon looks back at the yard. His father remains, speaking to the stable man regarding the horses, but his eyes are on Lyanna. He turns then, as if he can sense the gaze resting on him, and meets Jon’s eyes across the grounds.

Jon rushes into Winterfell, breaking the contact.  
.  
.  
.

The feast is the best Winterfell has to offer, roasted chicken and pig and quail laid out from the massively successful hunt they had gone on less than a moon before.

His mother had even killed a stag with her bow, a clean shot straight through the eye that the entire hunting party had stopped to marvel at and compliment her on. The meat was likely delicious, Jon thought from his seat on the dais, but he could hardly taste it. 

He sat next to his mother, who was seated next to his Father, on whose other flank was Brandon. Ashara, Catelyn, and Eddard continued the line, and Jon turned to Robb who sat by him.

“I’ve never seen such a spread in Winterfell,” Jon comments, and Robb nods with an easy smile, craning his neck to catch a glance of Rhaegar.

“You should begin a conversation with him,” Robb whispers, nudging Jon in the other direction. Jon’s face heats up, and turns to face forward again.

Lyanna’s hand in his curly hair interrupts his petulance. He looks over to pay attention to whatever it is she may need, only to find two sets of eyes on him.

“Your mother tells me you killed many of these animals yourself,” Rhaegar compliments him, eyes warm yet shrewd. Jon nods bashfully, before deflecting. “She killed the great stag herself, as well,” he says, nudging at the stag meat on his mother’s plate with his fork. He hesitates then, recalling that most married women would not be allowed on such an adventure, and not knowing if his father is such a man who would not approve of such an undertaking. He does not remember his mother hunting in Valyria, but there was danger there at the time, and he mentally apologizes to his mother for speaking so thoughtlessly.

“Did you,” Rhaegar turns to Lyanna, impressed notes in his voice. Jon breathes a sigh of relief. Lyanna takes a sip of wine and smiles. “Of course, for I am the best with the bow in all of Winterfell,” she boasts happily, grasping Jon’s hand and looking at his father.

The moment is interrupted when Brandon rises to offer a toast. They toast to the good health of their kingdoms, and all drink heartily. 

Jon throws back an entire glass of wine, surely on his way to being drunk, but he is certainly not the only one looking out of sorts tonight. That’s his only consolation, as he pours himself another glass.  
.  
.  
.

Jon prepares for bed, but he is running so hot that he decides to fetch a glass of warm cider from the kitchens to help him sleep. The stragglers from the feast are still making their ways, and Jon stumbles on a pair of lovers, both sets of skirts pulled up around their shapely legs, on the route passing the Great Hall. After that, he decides to take the longer route around the other, more empty side of the castle. 

A good walk always helps to clear his mind, anyways.

He rounds a hallway near his mother’s chambers when he finds another pair of lovers. These ones he recognizes, though.

“Rhaegar,” his beautiful mother laughs, his father’s face buried in her neck. He is an unreasonably tall man, so she is held up by his arms to grant him such access. 

Jon conceals himself behind a column to watch their interaction and embrace, although he does not know why. His curiosity just gets the best of him sometimes.

He remembers seeing his parents speaking softly, kissing one another, or touching hands at times as a child but since he’s been to Winterfell his mother has spoken almost nothing of her husband, or her feelings towards him. Most wives around him appear resigned to, at best fond of, their lord husbands, and he assumed that his parents were much the same. He did not anticipate their having genuine affection towards one another.

Evidently, he was wrong to make such inferences, because his mother puts her hands on either side of his father’s face and kisses him deeply, while his father’s arms encircle her and cage her to his chest. The bronze skin of her face is flushed, so it might be that their passion comes from the wine.

Jon contemplates leaving, as the sight is uncomfortable to watch and not meant for his eyes. 

His father speaks then, and Jon remains. “My heart,” he implores, in that familiar accent, “must I go another night without you? It has been too long. Allow me into your bed, even if it is only for sleep. I will not rest unless I have you in my arms.”

Lyanna pushes him away, only half her arm’s length, and laughs gaily. Jon has never known men to request access to their wives’ chambers, although he supposes he knows nothing of such things. He thinks it is good, though, for his father to ask. He stores this memory away for his own use if he ever has a wife of his own.

She strokes Rhaegar’s face, looking at him as lovingly as she looks at Jon himself. That takes him out of the moment completely. He _knows_ that look. He is on the receiving end of it most days.

It is the expression she wears when she’s happy.

Jon slips out unseen from behind the column, abandoning his quest for cider and returning to his bed. He does not wish to intrude on anyone’s privacy any longer, and instead wishes to be alone with his thoughts. When he collapses into his bed, however, he scarcely has time to think on what he saw before a fitful sleep claims him.

Outside Winterfell’s walls, Snowstorm rolls onto her back, showing Balerion her stomach as a gesture of submission. The elder nudges a charred sheep towards the younger, a show of goodwill amongst dragons. The whelp has grown greatly since Balerion saw it last, and they feast together in the moonlight.


	2. don't say you're sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way longer than i thought it would, but i had to rewrite it three times before it turned out the way i wanted. there was so much that had to get tossed out but i feel like it builds up to how i want it to come together in the end :)

Jon is ever an early riser, and the morning after the feast is no different. He has a hangover from his indulgence the previous night, so he wrestles with his sheets for an hour before finally abandoning his furs to bathe and dress.

Normally, he and Robb would spar in the morning, and turn to their lessons after. This morning, the entire castle moans and groans and refuses to rise from their slumber, so Jon breaks his fast quickly, and retreats to the room where he goes to be alone. 

He is thinking of the library, of course.

In preparation for their return to Valyria, Jon has been reading obsessively on Valyrian grammar, traditions, and history, to ensure that he is absolutely prepared. Aemon had advised him to do so, and he took his relative’s word to heart. Currently, he is reviewing the texts on the blood magic used to repel the Doom that had threatened Valyria centuries ago. Jon’s ancestors were critical to the task, with great sacrifices made from their House for the good of the Valyrian people, and reading of his family gave Jon a thrill. He is so engrossed that he does not hear the footsteps approaching him. 

“You read of our ancestor, Daenys,” Jon’s father speaks, softness not erasing the commanding quality of his tone. Jon practically jumps out of his seat, and Rhaegar places a hand on his shoulder in concern. “I apologize for startling you, Jacaerys.”

Jon goes red at his own reaction.

“No need, Your Grace, I just didn’t hear you coming,” Jon responds, flustered, as he moves his tome to the side of the table in front of him. 

“May I sit?” Rhaegar asks, and Jon nods. Rhaegar takes the seat next to him, and turns his face towards his son. Jon takes a moment to look - the man’s silver hair is loose yet orderly, hanging luminously just past his shoulders. He wears a deep red tunic beneath a black embroidered jerkin, a thick black cloak, and no crown. 

Jon supposes he doesn’t need one, because Rhaegar Targaryen looks every inch the Emperor, even simply sitting in a chair, one elbow resting on the table, legs stretched in front of him. _Beautiful Rhaegar,_ Uncle Brandon used to mock, when he teased Jon’s mother. Well, that much was true. An air of nobility surrounding his father was evident even now.

“Your mother told me before she left that I might find you here,” Rhaegar begins, speaking the Common Tongue. Jon wonders if he speaks to Jon’s siblings in this foreign tongue. “I am glad we might have a moment alone. We have lost much time, time that I dearly wish we might have spent together, but I hope that we will learn of each other now.” He smiles warmly, and Jon returns it. He looks as if he is done, but then reconsiders, and speaks again, “I have missed you and your mother a great deal, Jacaerys. It was never my intention for us to be parted for such a number of years.”

Jon nods, and bites at his lip, trying to think of a good response. _I missed you as well, although I hardly know you,_ he might say, or _I don’t know where to begin, but there is so much I wish to tell you._ Jon was not even sure what he wanted from his father, truly, only that there was a space in his life that had been empty all these years.

“Most people call me Jon,” is what he says instead. Rhaegar inclines his head. “Would you prefer that I call you such as well?”

Jon thinks about it, then shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. Jon might sound funny in your accent, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar’s nose crinkles for just a second, then smooths. “I understand if you do not feel comfortable to call me Father just yet. The distance between us is regrettable. You may call me Rhaegar, if you wish, but there is no need for titles. None of my family need use my titles,” he says, and Jon sighs in relief inside of himself. Your Grace had felt odd to say, but Father was so...intimate. This man was half a stranger.

“Rhaegar,” Jon tests on his tongue.

“Sounds funny in your accent,” Rhaegar jests, appearing satisfied with his own wit. Jon laughs in surprise, then goes quiet. He’s not sure what to say now. Luckily, Rhaegar picks it up from there.

“If I might ask, would you feel comfortable speaking with me in our mother language?” he asks, turning his big indigo eyes from examining the tome on the table onto Jon, who squares his shoulder a little. He only speaks High Valyrian with Aemon, and at rare moments his mother, so although it was his first language, he is afraid he might be inadequate. He tries, nonetheless.

“Yes, but I apologize for the mistakes I might make,” Jon says, fluently, in the language of his homeland. Rhaegar’s eyes turn bright.

“Thank you, I fear too much of this Westerosi tongue gives me a headache,” he replies, the edges of his mouth turning upwards.

“You are hardly the only one with a headache this day,” Jon says, referring to the feast. 

“I half expected you to still be abed with such pain,” his father says, without judgement, but clearly having noticed Jon’s...indulgence. He goes red yet again, and hangs his head with no little amount of shame. He is not usually so lush, and he feels the need to apologize, although he is not certain why.

“I fear I let my nerves get the best of me last night,” Jon says, the Valyrian pronunciation coming easier now that he’s started it, “I don’t usually drink wine. I’m used to ale.”

Rhaegar’s eyes are kind when he puts his hand back on Jon’s shoulder. “There is no need for embarrassment. I am glad to know you are moderate in drinking. That is a good quality for a man to have.”

Jon agrees. He brings the tome closer so that Rhaegar can see clearly instead of straining out of the corner of his eyes the way he’s doing now. One thing he does remember from childhood is that his father loves books and scrolls, always having his nose in one when Jon came running and shrieking to find him, knees skinned from play with Aegon and Daenerys. All his memories from his childhood were of such an ilk, warm and comforting as a dip in a hot spring, winding and bright like a walk through the underbrush of a forest at midday. 

He remembers crying vicious tears when he first arrived in Winterfell, the food and the people and the language as familiar as The Stranger. The Godswood looked haunted and Snowstorm kept trying to burn through her chains with the weak white dragonfire she spewed at that age. He’d slept in his mother’s bed for several moons, even though in his family’s Valyrian keep he’d had his own room, his walls painted pastel yellow with half a dozen arched windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling for sunlight to stream through. There had been piles of books on the shelves, children’s stories with painted pages that he had spent hours, days curled up with. 

Once, or perhaps a few times, Rhaegar had caught him at it, and they had read together, sounding out frustrating words and making special voices for each character. His father requested a platter of fresh fruits, breads, cheeses, and nuts for them to spend the day with, as well as squeezed juice, and Jon gorged his little stomach on papayas, guavas, and lychees until he keeled over, exhausted. At dinner that evening, an intimate affair with just his siblings, Elia, and his parents present, his mother fussed, flicking his father for ruining Jon’s appetite. He’d kissed her hand and smiled in response, Jon seemed to recall.

In the North, no such fruits existed, and the imported dried apricots or native hard apples had tasted like ash in Jon’s mouth for longer than he would ever admit. Even snow barely piqued his interest, homesick as he was. Then Robb had thrown a snowball at him one day, and Jon had gawked, before crafting a misshapen one of his own to toss back. They’d had great fun despite Jon’s lingering difficulty with the Westerosi tongue. He had even made a snowball to bring inside, placing it carefully on his bookshelf as a keepsake of the first day he had honestly _enjoyed_ in this foreign place.

It was water when he saw it next, and he had brought his mother to see the puddle in panic, not understanding what he’d done wrong. 

“Oh, Jon,” she had sighed, the first time the nickname the Starks had given him was uttered by her tongue, and hugged him close.

_I thought I had forgotten all that._

“Jacaerys,” Rhaegar’s voice interrupts his reminiscing. The man’s head is cocked to the left, in some curiosity.

“I apologize,” Jon splutters, reverting to the Common Tongue, then remembering himself and switching back to the oldest language still spoken, “I was simply thinking of a long-forgotten memory.”

“Perhaps one day you might share this memory with me,” Rhaegar smiles, and gestures to the book, “for now, would you like to know more about the near doom of Valyria after the eruption of seven of the Fourteen Flames, and the century of bloody warfare that followed?”

Jon grins, and ties his unruly hair up with a leather switch. That’s exactly what he would like. But first, “actually, I had some questions about Daenys’s visions, and the method of dream interpretation used. Do you know anything about that?”

Rhaegar’s eyes spark up. “Much and more, my son. In fact, the prophecies foreseen by Daenys were not at all unique to her, within or outside of our family. We might say the interpretation of dreams began in the Temple of Balerion, the Valyrian god of Death, for whom Balerion the Dread was named, although no written records were kept by the Temple’s disciples at the time…”

Jon leans forward with his elbows on the table and his knuckles under his chin. Rhaegar weaves together historical tales with his waving hands, and a calming sense of familiarity engulfs Jon. 

He wishes there were some lychees to be had, though. If Arya ever had a lychee, she would forget all about those blasted frogs.  
.  
.  
.

They spend hours holed up in the library, until Ser Dayne fetches them for the midday meal. 

“King Brandon asked if you might join him,” the knight relays the message, garbed in his armor although he is presumably among friends here in Winterfell. Rhaegar scoffs, before remembering Jon is there, and uneasily moving past his odd reaction. 

“Then we shall not have my goodbrother wait any longer. Please accompany me, Jacaerys,” he replies, standing up to an impressive height. Even though Rhaegar did not ask, and Jon should be miffed at being commanded, he rises as well without a second thought. He’s curious about that recoil.

“Do you and Uncle Brandon mislike each other?” he asks quietly, in Valyrian, on the walk to the intimate dining chambers Winterfell’s liege uses for such times as this.

Rhaegar sets amused eyes on Jon. “You have your mother’s curiosity,” he notes wistfully, before explaining, “we do not mislike each other. Your uncle loves Lyanna much, and he found fault in each man who courted her. He treated me no differently, even after we became wed, so our relationship has always been one of small slights, albeit without true malice. He was not at all pleased when the two years you were meant to stay became seven as a result of the wars, believing I was abandoning the two of you. Nonetheless, he is a fair sovereign, and I have great respect for him. He has been good to my family as well, at a time when I was not present. I owe him a debt.”

Jon nods, mulling it over. That does make sense.

“And there was the one fight,” Ser Dayne interrupts, with a cheeky quirk of his lips. The Sword of Morning may be the deadliest of the Emperor’s sworn shields, but the informal comment out of the man’s mouth reminds him that Arthur Dayne is also his father’s closest friend.

“Yes, thank you for the reminder, Arthur, I had forgotten,” Rhaegar looks back to send a glare at the Dornishman without breaking his brisk pace.

He does not seem like he is going to elaborate further.

“What fight?” Jon ventures.

“A fight,” Rhaegar responds, then slows his walking and sighs as if pained. “We were foolish young men. I had arrived at Winterfell hardly a week prior. He wagered that if he won, I’d leave without a bride, and if I won, then I might marry her with his blessing. They were quite close, so I agreed, believing it would curry me some favor with her. I dislocated his shoulder. He fractured my wrist. Your mother did not speak to either of us for many days.”

Jon’s jaw is halfway to the floor. His legs have stopped moving. “Who won?” is the only somewhat intelligent question he can muster.

Rhaegar gives him a pointed look. “That you exist is enough answer, I believe.”

“It was close, though,” Ser Dayne helpfully adds, and Rhaegar gives him a sharp look. “That is enough out of you, traitor,” he warns. Ser Dayne mock bows, every inch the noble knight. “As you say, Your Grace,” he says, in the Common Tongue, which sounds as fluid on his tongue as the Bastard Valyrian he had been using prior.

 _It is the language of the people,_ he had told Jon once, kneeling down and ruffling the young Prince’s hair many years prior, when Jon inquired as to why the words that came out of Arthur’s mouth sounded so different than what the rest of his family spoke. _I leave the fancy words to the dragonlords, it is the dragonseeds and the smallfolk that I need to be able to speak to._

The meal with King Brandon is blessedly short, once they finally arrive. Mainly they do not veer away from the North’s preparations for the upcoming winter, a matter of great import apparently. He and Robb sit up straight in their seats, taking every word that passes as seriously as possible, nodding endlessly as if their agreement matters for anything. 

In contrast, Rhaegar and Brandon barely maintain any courtesies.

“Lyanna’s trip to Deepwood Motte should bring us figures on the amount of lumber aged appropriately, for settling The Gift. She’s worked closely with Lord Galbart over the years. Their relationship has been quite...fruitful,” Uncle Brandon wryly interjects into the conversation. His rugged face is purposely innocent as he takes a sip of ale.

“Indeed,” Rhaegar replies, interest clearly false, “my wife spoke to me of many of the Northern houses last night. I hear that the horseflesh out of the Barrowlands is without peer, and that you yourself look to those resources. Lady Barbrey was so kind to the both of us on our wedding day. I am pleased to hear that Winterfell’s relationship with her has also been, how do you say? _Fruitful._ ”

Jon’s Uncle’s face goes dark, gracing the Emperor with a tight smile. It is an open secret that Lady Barbrey birthed a bastard for Brandon before either of them were married, and the girl child was married not three moons prior, to a second son of House Karstark. Rumor would say that the love affair never ended, although both of the two appear happily married. 

The meal is blessedly silent after that. Robb and Jon give each other wide-eyed glances, their soup abandoned.

When all rise to depart, a roar as loud as thunder shakes them. A second follows, but much less powerful, a version of a child’s delight.

“I apologize, Balerion-” 

“Snowstorm must be-” 

Rhaegar and Jon speak at the same time, recognizing the dragon roars. They are locked in battle, perhaps, Jon thinks with alarm.

“Let us go,” Rhaegar interrupts his doomsday thoughts, and the two make for the courtyard of Winterfell with speed. Jon is practically running, and Rhaegar laughs. 

“Like as not they are playing with one another,” he reassures Jon, when he sends a venomous look at the amused Emperor. “Balerion has not seen the hatchling for many years, and as her sire, he is unlikely to harm her.”

“Her sire?” Jon almost yells. 

His father seems surprised. “It is natural you might not remember, but indeed, the dragon you ride came from an egg of Balerion’s clutch. The same is true of Rhaenys and Aegon’s dragons. Balerion’s children have always grown strong and fierce, I am sure Snowstorm is no different.”

“She is a good girl,” Jon replies, shocked into honesty, “but I fear that she might be small for her age.”

“Let us look upon her, then,” Rhaegar suggests, as they pass out of the gates and raise their gazes to see the two beasts in the sky, screeching in delight.

“She’s a beautiful specimen,” Rhaegar notes, and Jon is pleased to hear that. “But I am curious about her speed and stamina.”

“Snow is fast as a spear,” Jon grumbles, affronted. He’s sensitive about that. “Balerion is slow as molasses compared to her.”

A wicked smile stretches across Rhaegar’s face, and he meets Jon’s widening eyes.

In the end, Snowstorm is indeed faster. Jon flies her in circles around Balerion, until the larger beast becomes annoyed and swats her with his tail, sending her and Jon careening away. When Snow straightens up again, her rider clinging to her back for dear life, Rhaegar is laughing, and Jon finds himself throwing his head back into the open sky, hysterically doing the same.  
.  
.  
.

Lyanna’s trips around the Northern lands are often fraught with danger, natural or manmade, and so she prays before she leaves and when she returns. The Godswood gives her a comfort that nothing else can, bar seeing her son safe and content.

The lumber shipment Galbart showed her was of fine quality, aged and dried for years, sealed in flameproof coating three times over, perfect for the purposes she meant them for. Given the short timeframe, it was necessary that she undertook this trip herself. She can confess that she also wished for Jacaerys and Rhaegar to have time for reconnection, and removed herself to allow that to happen. She would not open her heart, and certainly not her bed, to Rhaegar if he could not make peace with Jon.

The night of the first feast, though, she had been sorely tempted, the wine paired with his proximity doubly intoxicating. There had been no fire lit in her chambers beyond a few candles, but the air was nonetheless stifling as their hands mapped each other’s skin, falling into her bed as if no time at all had passed. It was only when she sat astride him, both of them nearly bare, the length of his desire nestled deliciously between her legs, that she remembered herself and the condition she had decided upon.

“You will be a father to our son before you are a husband to me,” she demanded, and he had taken one of her fingers into his inferno of a mouth to nip at. _She missed that mouth._ “You cannot possibly think I need any such incentive to become familiar with our boy,” he told her, “but I have so missed your fire, my love. Come rest in my embrace.”

And that was that. 

She had returned barely two hours before, soaking herself spotless in a steaming bath before searching for the two. Ashara and Arthur had instructed her to simply look upwards.

“They’ve flown together most days you’ve been gone,” Arthur said, purple eyes knowing. Ashara was kind as well, and when Lyanna asked if the two seemed to be getting along, her goodsister had merely replied, “oh, ferociously. They seem to love their books.”

Now Lyanna kneels in the thick grass before the weirwood, sunlight streaming through the canopy of trees as if it wanted nothing more than to envelope her.

“Lyanna,” a tender voice calls, interrupting the honeyed haze of the afternoon, and for one delirious moment she thinks the tree is talking to her. Of course, it was not. It was him, here in the flesh, something she still almost could not believe.

“Rhaegar,” she says simply, turning and sitting on her knees to face him where he is perched on a bare stump, his long legs stretched out. He favors his right side, Lyanna notes. She wonders what war wound made him so.

“Ashara told me you might be here,” he says, in Valyrian. They always switched between each other’s mother tongues, and Lyanna makes the mental transition easily. “How was your trip?”

“As expected,” she tests the foreign words on her tongue, knowing that her Northern accent will always appear, “the supplies will reach before us if all goes well. From there, it should be no issue.”

He hums, sliding from his place, bringing a hand to caress her face and kiss her sweetly. “That is good news,” he presses the words to her lips, raising a hand to remove her ribbon and carding a hand through her freshly dried tresses.

Lyanna sighs and indulges herself, resting her palms on his broad shoulders and exploring the cavern of his mouth for just a moment. She gathers her strength and pushes him away gently, and he looks at her curiously.

“We must speak.”

“Then let us speak,” he breezes in reply, raising her hand to leave a kiss on her inner wrist, pausing to find her pulse. It softens her heart.

“I am not the same person I was when I left you,” she tells him nonetheless, “and neither is our boy. I know the Gods have made of our lives what they will, and that we must move forward as best we can. You have none of my anger, although raising Jacaerys without you was a burden difficult to carry. He has _so much_ of you in him, Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar looks contemplative. He opens his mouth, but Lyanna is not finished yet.

“I have missed you so much it hurt to think of you. Even now, I love you. I never stopped. But this...it will not be simple. Jacaerys is more important to me than anything to exist. I wish for us to be open with one another.”

By the time she finishes a lump is in her throat. A few stray tears escape, and he wipes them away, raising her face so their eyes meet.

“My love,” he murmurs, leaning to kiss the saltwater from her cheek. “You cannot imagine the pain it caused me to leave you and the son between us. All I wished for each night was your return. These titles, this war...they exhaust me. We both did our duties. Jacaerys is blessed, for he has more of you than me. But this misery is at an end now. There will be no more distance between us, so let there be no distance between our hearts any longer.”

He holds her then, and she allows him to gather her into his arms and onto his lap. 

“We cannot retrieve what we have lost,” he admits with his chin on her head, “but apologies are wind. Let us be the family Jacaerys needs henceforth and think nothing of the past. Mayhaps we can even give him another sibling, perhaps two.”

Lyanna squawks. “You presume much,” she puts on indignance and smacks his arm. 

“Do I now,” his answering smirk is filthy, but his eyes shine bright with hope. In truth, she has considered it as well. They were happiest together when Jon was small, and parenting him obsessed them both. Jon treats Arya and Bran and even baby Rickon as if they are his own siblings - he would adore another sister. Her late miscarriage is far in her past, and the age gap would be too great for Jon to marry any babe she would have, so Lyanna has few reservations left.

One thing occurs to her. “I have had a lover,” she tells him, and watches his face for his reaction.

“Yes, Lady Mormont.” _Clever bastard._ “She spoke to me the night of the first feast. She said she would be sad to see you go, for you have the firmest breasts she’s ever beheld. We share a taste for bold women, it seems.”

Lyanna snorts. “It is good that you are not upset, although you have no right to be.”

“Indeed,” Rhaegar acquiesces, face resting between the very breasts Dacey named firm. She runs her hands through his silk silver hair. “I expected as much, and I had already resolved to slay your lover before I whisked you away. A woman, though. That is without issue.”

“You do speak some nonsense, and I tire of words,” Lyanna murmurs in Valyrian just for him, before pushing him to lie down on the soft grass beneath them.

“Do you remember the one time we were here, after we were wed,” he smiles lovingly up at her as she unties her laces in front of him, her tits overflowing into his open palms as soon as they find release from her gown. “What did you tell me then? That if we made love beneath this tree, we would be blessed?”

“I said,” Lyanna responds with great cheek, her hands making quick work of his shirt buttons and the front of his breeches, “that you’d better fuck me well, otherwise the Old Gods would curse your cock.”

“It seems I fucked you just fine, then,” he says, continuing their banter, but his words are strained as she slid down his body, tracing his scars, his gaze upon her shimmering with nearly a decade of unfulfilled desire. Tears sting at her, which she hides by burrowing her face in his feverishly hot skin.

“You might have. Remind me again,” she whispers with dark intent, before taking him into her mouth and stealing the breath from him.  
.  
.  
.

The day of their departure is a solemn one. The ground is wet and it’s even wetter with the tears of farewell shed by many a gruff Northerner. King Brandon does not cry, but he holds Lyanna so close for so long it’s a miracle she does not suffocate. She kisses her favorite brother right on the mouth and does the same for Ned, Ashara, and even Catelyn. Robb does spend a few tears, but he has an overflowing heart. As a king should.

“Remember which end to stick them with,” Jon whispers into Arya’s ear as he holds her up, her skinny little arms wrapped around his neck. She laughs at his jokes one more time. He’ll cherish that forever.

“The next time I see you, you’ll be wearing a crown,” Robb jests. Their embrace says all the words they can’t, and neither of them look back.

“Listen to your mother, boy,” Uncle Brandon says gruffly, thumping him on the back, before pulling him close by the furs, “wolves die without their pack. So long as you two have each other, you might have a fighting chance.”

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Uncle Ned echoes his brother’s sentiments, ruffling Jon’s curly hair one last time.

The Starks are not the only ones making their farewells. Rhaegar has his own to make.

“Travel well, brother. Give my regards to your family and Elia’s,” Rhaegar says with his eyes closed, forehead tilted against Ser Arthur’s in a masculine gesture of deep affection.

“I will return to your side, Rhaegar,” Arthur promises. “My loyalty is ever yours.”

Of all the men who accompanied Rhaegar to Winterfell, only one, Barristan the Bold, accompanies them back. He has no family left in Westeros, and he claimed that his place was by the Emperor’s side. _Barristan one one side and Blackfyre on the other,_ Jon’s mother had japed when he said that, and the table had erupted in raucous toasts to that effect. 

“These men fought five years of war for me,” Rhaegar had explained to Jon, “Valar dohaeris. They have served, and now I honor their sacrifices. They will have their rest, they will see their homelands, and they will return to me if they wish.”

“And will they wish?” Jon wondered aloud.

“Most of us,” Arthur answered, “for we swore a vow. We would not be the Emperor’s own guards if we were false.”

Arthur stands by his sister’s side when Jon climbs atop Snowstorm, his mother grumbling as she secures herself on the beast behind Jon. Balerion boasts his father and Ser Barristan, and together, they coast upwards towards the heavens. A retinue of Northmen atop horses can be seen below, making their way with supplies.

Winterfell. Stern, strong, unyielding Winterfell. Jon looks down at it from the air, the Northern wind whipping against his face punishingly. Possessively. He will see it again in his lifetime, he swears to himself. His mother’s head rests against his back, bowed as if in prayer.  
.  
.  
.

Jon had seen the Wall once before, two years prior, on a visit with Brandon and Lyanna. The first reports of the wights had come, and the wildlings were becoming more and more hostile to the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch. 

The sworn brothers had responded by taking some wildlings hostage to force peace talks, including a young girl named Val. She had given Jon his first kiss. Well, that wasn’t true. His first kiss was Dany, during the kissing games they played as small children. She loved kissing, and he had been happy to oblige even when Aegon grew bored of their games. Secretly, Jon was always glad when Aegon left the two of them alone. 

Gods, he misses them all, even Rhaenys and Viserys, who had always turned up their noses at child’s play. Rhaenys had told him the day he left that he was her favorite brother. Viserys was a cunt but his viciousness turned Jon tough.

“Your Grace,” Uncle Benjen greets Rhaegar hastily, before Lyanna throws herself into her youngest brother’s arms and their twin laughter fills the air. They spin around the courtyard shrieking, and Aemon with his unseeing eyes enjoys the sound.

“Rhaegar,” the old man breathes, tracing the emperor’s face, who was bent down in respect. “You have brought glory to our House, boy.”

“Your wisdom has guided me. But we are not yet finished.”

“No,” Aemon sagely agrees, and places a hand on Jon's face to feel how it has changed. “There is much to speak of.”  
.  
.  
.

The arrival of Galbart’s lumber preceded them, thankfully, and so construction has already begun. Lyanna changes into black riding breeches and a black tunic from Benjen at the first opportunity, pairing it with a heavy fur cloak that boasts no sigil, merely warmth. 

“We are matching,” she teases Jon, who rarely strays from the color himself. He gives her a hint of a smile, before turning his eyes back to the sight in front of him.

“So this is what you have been working on, Muna,” he demures, the sight of the halfway completed wooden hall stretching in front of them. The heat from the furnaces inside bleeds outwards, the door a large round gaping opening that sits three men tall. “You forgot the doors, it seems.”

“No door,” she corrects, and he arches a brow at her. She flicks it, just like she flicks it off Rhaegar when he does that. “No door, the opening is there for a reason. Can you guess?”

He considers the question. “I suppose that depends on what is being made within.”

“Smart pup you are,” she preens, before leading him closer. “We have the wildlings to thank for this, in truth. They spoke to us of times when the Children would give them chests of blades each year, to combat the threats beyond the Wall. The blades were rare and precious, made of a substance deep down in the ground that man cannot mine. Dragonglass, they called it. We have been experimenting with manners of creating such glass in larger portions, using the Valyrian methods of minings championed by your uncle Aemon. It was not successful for a time, but with the cooperation of the wildlings, we believe we have found a path that allows for us to create dragonglass above the ground. It is a matter of pressure, and of immense heat.”

“And that’s what we are here for? To assist with the dragonglass manufacture?”

“Well, son,” Lyanna grins from ear to ear, “who better to create dragonglass, than a dragon? The missing door is for Balerion’s massive head, of course. Dragonfire has elements of both heat and directed strength. It is the perfect solution.”

“Mama,” Jon marvels, turning back to what he now knows is a factory for dragonglass. The workmen, wildlings and new settlers of the Gift and brother’s of the Watch alike, hammering away at the structure.

“You are a genius,” he splutters in awe.

“Indeed she is,” Rhaegar speaks softly from behind, coming to wrap his arms around Lyanna’s shoulders and kiss her temple. "Let us never forget it."  
.  
.  
.

The clank of the bottle on the table interrupts the clattering of spoons and warm words passing between the group of unlikely relations, sat around the table in Aemon’s chambers.

“Do not tell me,” the old man says quickly, great joy in his words, “for I recognize the glorious sound of a full bottle of Oldtown-bred cider, made from those exquisite apples that grow along the Honeywine. Apart from your harp, it is the sweetest music I have ever heard.”

Benjen whistles. “Sharp as ever, brother maester.”

“One never forgets the indulgences of their youth,” Aemon’s tone was wistful with remembrance, and Rhaegar pours them all a glass. “Please join me in a traditional Valyrian toast. We must all provide a means for celebration, and drink to each other’s wishes as well as our own. I will begin.”

He raises his glass in his spindly hands, the normally present shakes gone out of them completely. “To Valyria. May the sun never set on the empire.”

“To the Night’s Watch. May our brotherhood always ring true,” Benjen adds gruffly, raising his own cup.

“To House Targaryen. May our fires remain lit and our blood run strong,” Rhaegar toasts.

“To Princess Elia, may her memory live on,” Lyanna salutes sentimentally, joining her words to the circle.

“To my mother,” Jon decides on, “may she live long.” Rhaegar looks at him approvingly and they all drink deeply.

They open a second bottle of cider after that, and the cold of the Wall could barely be spared a thought between the roaring fire and familial laughter that filled the small room. The furnace would be prepared for Balerion's breath in a week’s time, Jon learned, and they would stay for another three following to produce the glass, at which time they would depart. For Dragonstone, an island on the very edge of the Empire, nearly touching Westeros itself, Jon was informed, and then to Valyria. Benjen had once seen a wight himself, and regaled them with stories of it, as well as of a man named Craster, who had seen The Others themselves.

“We did not believe it at first, no offense meant to you, Your Grace,” Benjen said warily. Rhaegar’s tales had been taken badly by the Northmen when he first broached them, when considering sending Jon North for a time. There were still many doubters, but the Night’s Watch was not among them. “But of course the time for that has passed. We have been successful in lining arrows with dragonglass as well, and the Watch is well-equipped with longbows, due to a previous Lord Commander's predilection for the weapon.”

“Yes,” Rhaegar spoke meaningfully, “that is part of why we are here.”

Aemon sighs deeply. 

“We cannot truly say what lies beyond, Your Grace,” Benjen supplies quickly, “and the cave of which Aemon has asked, the one circled by crows and ravens alike...well, I’ve tried. It’s impossible to reach.”

“Benjen is the best ranger the Night’s Watch has, and his capability is not to be questioned,” Lyanna interrupts, “but you still have not told me what you search for.”

Jon didn’t know either, but he agreed that if Uncle Ben couldn’t do something, no one could. He was nimble, wickedly smart, and seasoned to boot. 

Rhaegar looked to Aemon, who seemed to sense the eyes of his guests on him. His lips were pursed. 

“There was a Targaryen Lord once, Aegon the Fourth. Do you recall the name they gave him, Jacaerys?”

“The Unworthy,” Jon recalls, from his lessons of youth.

“Indeed,” Aemon murmured, and continued, “he was a man...fond of worldly pleasures. Many Blackfyres came from him, and great strife was caused in the matter of succession. One of them was borne of a Westerosi noblewoman, a Blackwood. She named him Brynden according to her custom, and taught him to worship the Old Gods, but he was raised in his father’s court alongside his trueborn and baseborn brothers and sisters.”

“Lord Brynden was of an intellect most cannot fathom, but he was also a man who practiced the darkest of magic alongside his lover, another of his father’s bastards. His influence in the family was seen as corrupting,” Rhaegar proceeds to say, and Aemon touched his hand gratefully before opening his mouth again.

“Indeed. Once it became clear that his presence would not be tolerated any longer, that he would face his death soon, Lord Brynden flew his dragon to the Wall and joined the Watch. In time, he became Lord Commander of our most noble Order. Then one day…”

“He disappeared with his beast,” Benjen finishes the tale, brows furrowed in confusion. “Lord Bloodraven, they called him, for a birthmark on his face. I’ve heard the stories, but I did not know he was a Targaryen. Only a noble bastard and a thief.”

“He was both,” Rhaegar leans forward on the table, “for when he fled, he took with him several priceless treasures of our House. Wherever he disappeared to, that’s where they are. It is my belief that Jacaerys and I might reclaim them before we depart.”

“All this over a few baubles,” Lyanna derides, the same expression Benjen wore covering her face.

“They are not baubles, my love,” Rhaegar gently insists, then looks to Jon. There is something...there is something to his father’s words. A feeling slithering up Jon’s spine. A memory from what might have been a dream. He reaches deeply into his mind, trying to grasp a thought, but it evades him. Like Arya and her frogs.

“There was once a saying. How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?” Aemon recalls, so lost in the haze of memory that his voice carries as if it is underwater. Or perhaps it is the drink.

“A thousand and one,” Rhaegar answers, but that isn’t quite right. 

“No,” Jon interjects, and when all eyes land on him the memory comes back to him in its entirety. _Bran saw it first, then me. Or Summer saw it first, then Ghost. We thought we were dreaming._ “Just three. The raven has three eyes.”  
.  
.  
.

The day is grey, and the sky stretches on unendingly. Join rejoices when he wakes up to the overcast, for it is exactly what they been waiting for.

Snowstorm is silver in the sunlight, but when the sky is filled with a film of dark clouds, she is nearly invisible in the air. Atop her, they will not be seen.

“I do not like this, Rhaegar,” his mother huffs, fussing over Jon, “your heirlooms are objects. My son is not.”

“That is undeniable. We will speak more when I return, Lyanna,” his father soothes, cradling her face softly and kissing her thrice.

“Oh, yes we will. Do not think to get lost beyond the Wall and avoid me. I will come find you,” she threatens, before embracing Jon tightly and reiterating the same threat. Jon laughs, and clambers onto Snow. Once he has made her calm with his hands, Rhaegar follows him onto the beast. 

“The wildling girl I often see you speaking with is watching quite closely,” the Emperor breathes into Jon’s ear in High Valyrian.

“What girl,” Jon feigns ignorance of Val.

“The one who looks like Daenerys,” Rhaegar volleys back with wry laughter clear in his words, and Jon spurs Snowstorm upwards without responding. If the tips of his ears are red, hopefully his curly hair hides it.  
.  
.  
.  
The cave is not reachable on foot or on horse, Benjen had said. Jon believed him. Rhaegar believed him. But with a dragon, the supposedly impossible journey was hardly two hours, and Snow landed on top of the crag easily. The force of her landing shook the snow surrounding them, and what arose from the pillowy ground took the entire party by surprise.

“Snowstorm,” Jon cried, and then pulled her reigns in the way he did when he was allowing her to hunt. She breathed fire, white as ivory all around her, and the undead burst into millions of pieces. As if they were made of glass, and not repurposed flesh.

Rhaegar slides off the dragon easily, landing on his feet and withdrawing Blackfyre, slicing through two wights at once. Their bodies were clumsy, and four more of them were dead before any of them had even registered Rhaegar as a specimen of interest.

From beneath the crag, nearly seven more wights appeared. Jon put dragonglass-laced arrows in three of their throats faster than he had ever done anything, and Snowstorm’s flames killed the rest. Or killed what was left of them, Jon supposed.

He came to the ground and joined his father in kicking the snow around to discover any remaining creatures. The birds that had guided them to this place had disappeared, perhaps scared off by the conflict. 

“You reacted well, Jacaerys. You have the makings of a commander in you,” Rhaegar compliments him. It is sickening how well Jon likes the praise from the man.

“Well, I learned from the best Winterfell has to offer,” he attempts modesty, “I’m sure Aegon and Viserys would do better.”

Rhaegar levels him with a gaze as if he has said something quite funny. “I don’t believe so. Aegon’s strength is in his ambition, not his intuition. War does not come to your brother naturally, although he is a fine leader. Viserys...well, you will meet him again soon enough.”

Jon nods and laughs. That sounds like Viserys.

The opening of the cave is surrounded by bones. Some of them small, dead animals and the like, some of them human, and some of them - some of them can only be one thing. _A dragon died here,_ Jon realizes. It is sobering to see. 

“The carcass of Caraxes. Bloodraven was here,” Rhaegar says, decisively and excitedly. 

The mouth of the cave has to it a resistance to the entrance that open air alone could not create. It is akin to breaching a pool of water filled with heavy oils that stick to the face and hands. An invisible ward of some sort, but after it engulfs Jon for a moment, it releases him, and he finds himself within.

They walk for a time, listening only to the dripping of water, the flickering breezes from some underground stream, the scattering of the tiny feet of small animals. They light the torch they brought soon enough, and continue along, when Jon stumbles and trips over what feels like a tree root.

“Jacaerys?” Rhaegar asks after him, and Jon curses before arising, feeling backwards for the dagger he dropped.

The ground is damp and wet and warm beneath him. He clasps his hand around a pommel, but it isn’t his dagger, he realizes sharply.

Rhaegar comes closer with the torch at the moment Jon looks up. A face that is hardly a face is before him, eyes red and alive despite the fine bones they are set in.

“Fuck,” Jon yells, scrambling backwards, pulling the pommel he holds with him to withdraw the sword embedded in the corpse’s belt. If it is a wight, Jon can surely hold it off with it's own weapon.

The blade in his hand is is pure black, with gold lining the cross-guards and an enormous ruby set at the hilt. Rhaegar reaches out and places his hand atop Jon’s on the enchanting sword, gasping when he brings it closer to the light.

“This is the sword named Dark Sister,” he says softly, in wonder, “Bloodraven...this must be his corpse.” 

_He did not see the eyes,_ Jon realizes, his heart sinking. _He doesn’t know it’s alive._

“Not a corpse yet, Rhaegar the Emperor,” the mess of bare skin and bones wheezes tauntingly from beneath them, and they both jump, backs against the cave wall, hearts beating so furiously they might as well be echoing throughout the cavern, “not a corpse yet.”

The raven perched on the shoulder of Lord Bloodraven turns to Jon as if looking him in the eye, quirking it’s head to the side in a discomfiting human-like gesture.

“ _King,_ ” it squawks, just like it did in Jon’s dreams, in Ghost’s visions, “ _king, king, king._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fave part of this is when jon gets drunk and says the f word right in front of his dad and rhaegar can't tell him shit cause jon is grown


	3. swallow my feelings, but won't swallow my pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end, and the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a timeskip of about 10 years between the last chapter and now. jacaerys and dany are both 24 for context.

“I believe the vambraces will be overly tight,” Rhaegar interrupts the comfortable silence to muse aloud, and Daenerys shrieks in laughter. Jon looks at her affectionately while he corks the bottle of wine nearest to her—he knows when his wife has had enough.

“Not this again,” he grumbles although he is smiling, cheeks pleasantly warm from his own ale, “if you doubt the skill of our armorer you need only say so, Father. He has merely served Dragonstone for forty years.”

Rhaegar shakes his head. “No, no. Do not allow me to disturb the good man’s work. But you will see, they will be too tight.” Then he leans back in his chair, nostalgia written on his face. “Do you remember when Jacaerys did not call me Father, and instead by my given name?”

“Rhaegarrr,” Dany rolls the last letter exaggeratedly, mimicking the Northern tilt to Jon’s words. They all chuckle, except for Jon who groans.

“Why is it that I am always on the receiving end of this joke, when my mother’s accent is even worse? And yet she remains untaunted, whilst I could not escape mockery if I ran away to the bloody Stepstones.”

“Ah, but a man must never deride his wife,” Rhaegar notes, finishing the dregs of his own aged wine and waving away Daenerys’s movement to refill his glass. “No, sister, I believe I have made enough of a dent in your cellar.”

“And,” she adds, “the Emperor and Empress most often call each other ‘my love’ or ‘my heart,’ rather than by name. So we could not even make this joke very often if she was the target.”

Rhaegar hums, looking thoughtful and a bit melancholy, a sudden change from the moment prior. He withdraws a plain golden chain from beneath his shirt, the end of which is fashioned into a locket. He turns it open and gazes upon the portrait within, pressing a tender kiss to it. “She is my heart and my love. All of you are. My children, my siblings, my wives, all of you are so dear to me.”

Jon is taken aback by the relatively effusive words of love from his normally composed father.

“Why do you not have a locket with my visage within?” Dany demands, interrupting his thoughts, although her lopsided smile shows she is joking. Even at the conclusion of the day, hair mussed and face ruddy, she is still the most precious and beautiful creature in the world to him. He takes her hand and kisses it.

“Because no portrait could ever do you justice. You know that.” He steals a kiss then, one she prolongs with a hand on his thigh.

“Yes, yes,” Rhaegar says kindly, rising from his seat, “I know when I have outstayed my welcome. Goodnight, Jacaerys and Daenerys, thank you for once again spending your evening with an old man. Fear not, I shall not intrude on your hospitality for much longer.”

“Do shut up, Your Grace. You know you are welcome to remain here eternally,” Dany snorts, kissing him on each cheek. Jon rubs his wife’s shoulders and bows his head. “Father. We will see you in the morning.”

Once he’s gone, Jon sweeps Daenerys up in his arms and leisurely walks them back to the chambers they share, kissing and laughing all the while. No separate chambers exist between them, for they would never use them.

“Oh, Jace,” Dany moans, as he hikes up her dress over her head and undresses himself as well, careful to place Dark Sister on the dresser but merely tearing at everything else. “I do so love when we drink wine.”

“I do so love you,” he grunts, bending her knees until they lie over his shoulders.

In the morning, he summons the castle armorer to his solar and requests the vambraces be expanded, without explaining the reason for the sudden change. When is alone once more, he slides the lowest drawer of his desk open to trace the familiar weirwood box, wondering not for the first time if the moment to bestow it upon its rightful owner has come. He places it back in it’s hiding spot and shakes his head. The time for patience has not yet ended.  
.  
.  
.

The sweet taste of the time they spent together has not had a chance to fade when the raven finds them. _Dark wings, dark words._ Daenerys collapses and Balerion takes to the skies, beating his wings in the direction of his home. _  
.  
.  
._

__

The armor fits him like a glove. It is black as night, as he usually prefers his armor, with snarling swirling dragons etched onto the durable metal. He ties his hair back, smoothing it out of his face.

__

_“I expected the boy, the broken boy,” rasped Lord Bloodraven, “but that will not be until after the sea comes to Winterfell.”_

__

Jon’s gloved hands hit the wood of the table hard, as his chest heaves and he gasps for air. His ears haven’t stopped ringing, the bells of grief they’d rung for hours straight still vaulting around his mind. 

__

Uncle Brandon. Ned. Catelyn. Bran, Rickon. Jory Cassel. Mikken. _Robb. Robb most of all._ They were all gone, the missive from White Harbor read. The ironborn had hung Stark heads on pikes and struck the direwolf from the banners.

__

Sansa was in the Reach, wed and pregnant and safe. His aunt Ashara remained with Arya in Starfall, adjusting the girl to married life with the young lord Edric Dayne, which was Jon’s greatest reprieve in this whole horror. Arya’s death would have broken him beyond repair. Instead, knowing that there were still Starks with rights to claim imbued him with strength.

__

“My darling,” Daenerys’s soothing voice paired with her gentle hands running over the scales on his breastplate dismisses his melancholy for a moment. His wife has that power over him, the same power his mother had over his father.

__

Oh, muna, he thought, and let Dany take him into her familiar embrace while a quiet sob wracked him.

__

_”Your bride will mourn you before her hair goes grey.” It was difficult to tell in the low light of the torch, but Rhaegar’s face seemed ashen._

__

_He nodded anyways. Outside the cave, in the harsh sunlight, Rhaegar unsheathed Blackfyre. “You will not tell your mother of my death to come. She’ll have naught but happiness.” Jon placed his hand on the sword and swore it._

__

Somehow, Jon thinks she knew anyways. Every goodbye between them took so long.

__

He had gone for Aemon’s bones. And for some other reason Jon could not weasel out from him during the moon Rhaegar had tarried at Dragonstone on his way to the Wall. Jon and Daenerys had been delighted to host him, of course, Dany who adored her big brother especially, and Rhaegar had kept about him a lightness that Jon had never seen in him. They spoke extensively about the politics of the Westerosi houses, a topic the couple had taken a keen interest in since claiming the keep of Dragonstone as their own. 

__

A keep to pass onto their children, Jon had thought. But no children had come yet. And now, any children of theirs would never meet their Imperial grandsire.

__

His father travelled light as always, fifty men in his retinue and Balerion left behind, for he meant to make trade with several houses on his journey. That had been his undoing.

__

When Robert Durrandon took them unawares upon the Trident, bellowing that no inbred warlord was welcome in Westeros, all who survived said his father fought valiantly. He took Jaime Lannister’s sword hand, at the least. But there was nothing to be done. A false friend in the Young Lion of Lannister had led Rhaegar’s party right to where Robert’s host of two hundred knights, horses, and bowmen were dressed in red and gold—Robert’s wife was a Lioness of the Rock, the once-renowned beauty Cersei, and they feared that Rhaegar’s repeated presence in Westeros meant that Valyria was finally turning to their respective kingdoms for an invasion.

__

_Lyanna_ was his father’s last word, it seemed, falling from the lips of a dying man as if a prayer. And Robert laughed.

__

“His Stark wife’s a rare beauty, I hear,” the stag roared, “I’ll find her and fuck her bloody in this dead dragon’s honor! That’ll keep these thrice-damned Valyrians away from our lands!”

__

The irony was Rhaegar had no such ambitions. He had married Dornish and Northern Princesses, yes, but he’d never lifted a finger to claim his wives’s homelands for the Empire.

__

“Jacaerys,” Daenerys croons and Jon seizes her close.

__

“I cannot believe it,” he says in Valyrian, the language they speak when they are alone. Lately they’ve been practicing the Common Tongue, moreso for her sake, but with the news, they clung to comfort wherever they could find it.

__

“Nor can I,” she agrees, and rests her head on his shoulder. “They will die, husband. All of them. The Lannisters, the Durrandons, the Greyjoys. We will rip their hearts from their chests. Meraxes and Snowstorm will feast upon corpses.”

__

“They will,” he promises. Between them he has always been more cautious, but that’s all behind them. Going forward there will be naught but fire and blood.

__

Out of the window overlooking the Narrow Sea, far in the distance, the sight of a hundred sails flying the seahorse of the Velaryon fleet can be seen if one squints. The fleet had been in Volantis prior to the news, and half the galleys were newly constructed from the wealth brought by the bastard Aurane’s latest ventures to Asshai. Jon thought it unlikely that Aurane alone headed them now.

__

As if to confirm his thoughts, Snow and Daenerys’s Meraxes let out equal roars, which they do when other dragons approach.

__

“Fire and Blood,” Dany closes her eyes and kisses him with staggering force. Even with what is to come, even with the pain behind them, she’s always his lover before anything, the center of his life. He returns her kiss, and the saltwater of his tears melts into the smooth skin of her face.  
.  
.  
.

__

Aurane is at the head of the fleet, but Lord Monford Velaryon himself rode The Pride of Driftmark. On the deck of the warship stands an unconquered Lyanna Stark, alongside Arthur and a ten year old girl. Jon’s darling sister Elaena, who is already impossibly pretty with her silver hair akin to spun stardust, her visage and smile so radiant it melted the hardest of hearts. It had certainly melted Rhaegar’s. The sight of her today is yet another knife in Jon’s chest.

__

Above them flew the great warbeast that was Vhagar, with Aegon saddled to his back. Viserys’s gloriously vain Syrax was already on the island, having flown her rider and the Princess Arianne there immediately upon receipt of a raven from Daenerys.

__

“Jace,” Elaena cries, and runs into his arms upon their landing.

__

“ _Rytsas, haedar_ ,” Jon hugs her, sweeping her from the ground easily. She wraps her skinny arms around him, and when their mother joins them, Jon subsumes her into their embrace, the circle of their little family never to be truly complete again.

__

“Come have a meal, you must be famished,” Daenerys invites, after she has had her own emotional embraces with the new arrivals. Arthur’s eyes are steel with grief and rage alike, and he follows the small party inside while Jon waits for Aegon to land.

__

“ _Valonqar,_ ” Aegon greets gruffly when he does disembark. He is every stitch the dragonlord, a man to make House Targaryen proud, and a brother Jon loves. The only brother left to him. They meet each other in a firm grip of their hands for a moment, before Aegon pulls Jon in and they wrap their arms around each other.

__

“They’ll die by our hands. These Westerosi will never forget our names,” the newest patriarch of House Targaryen promises, and Jon agrees to that murderous vow. 

__

In a sense.

__

It’s when they’ve all partaken in a meal of hearty blackened fish soup and sourdough bread that Dany and Jon meet each other’s eyes. They lead their guests to the room where the Painted Table stands proud, the last remnant of the first Lord Aegon’s ambitions.

__

“There is a war ahead of us,” he begins, and places cyvasse pieces on the castles of Storm’s End, Casterly Rock, and Pyke. He places another on Winterfell, sending an apologetic look towards his mother. For the moment, it’s enemy territory. 

__

“We have allies, or we might,” Arthur joins, placing differently colored pieces on Sunspear, the Wall, Riverrun, and Highgarden. Sansa is a Gardener by marriage, and Willas seems to love her well. Whether he’d raise his banners for her is difficult to say. Riverrun was Queen Catelyn’s home, and Jon could hear the thundering of the Riverlords banners being gathered from as far away as he was. Sunspear...Viserys wed to Arianne, Rhaegar once wed to Elia, and a half-Martell dragonlord in Aegon guaranteed their support, but in what manner was difficult to say. Prince Doran was as cautious as his goodson was impatient for vengeance.

__

Jon nods, then gently places a few ally pieces on White Harbor, the Neck, and an enemy piece on the Crossing, for the Freys were intermarried with the Lannisters.

__

“However, I don’t mean to merely sack our enemies,” Jon announces, and all eyes land on him.

__

“Of course,” Aegon affirms, “let us dethrone them entirely. Their kingdoms will live in chaos for a lifetime.That’ll be good for you, at least,” he spares a glance at Viserys and Arianne, who would rule over all of Dorne one day. With their neighbors weakened they could take advantage.

__

“They will be dethroned. But not for the sake of chaos. For the sake of unity.”

__

Dany rises and interlinks their hands together. “We mean to conquer Westeros. Not for the Empire. But as seven kingdoms, cleaved together as one. Under the Targaryen banner.”

__

The sound of a drop of water falling from the ceiling and touching the stone floor could have been heard. Even Elaena sat stock still, peering wondrously at her mother for an understanding of what was happening. 

__

Aegon broke the silence, huffing. “It is not that I do not share your lust for destroying these people and their ways. It is that Westeros is a backwater, a sad excuse for a civilization. There is nothing here worth ruling, brother. I will grant you and Daenerys places of great honor in our court, you need not look for your own Empire when we lie at the crux of the greatest one to exist.”

__

“It isn’t a backwater,” Lyanna defends, and Arianne verbally agrees. “Valyria was built by slaves. Westeros was carved by heroes.” 

__

“And Valyria paid for her sins through the narrowly averted Doom,” Daenerys interrupts impatiently.

__

“And what sins must I pay for, that you expect me to bend my little knees for you, Jacaerys Targaryen?” Arianne laughs, seeming amused, but the heat beneath was unmistakable. “There is only one man in your House who might respectfully request I take such a position. It isn’t you.” Viserys sneers from behind his glass of wine.

__

“You would not be a vassal to me,” Jon assures her, slightly discomfited as always by the Dornish princess. He was weak to beauty wielded as a weapon. “But Dorne has no express interest in ruling, nor do you have the manpower to hold lands beyond your own. You will keep your titles, and we will marry the new throne to your House as quickly as we can, but you will accept us as your rightful King and Queen.”

__

“Westeros is not like Valyria,” Arthur warns, skeptical. “These are proud people who have warred and treated with each other for centuries. They will not accept expansion as easily as Valyria’s daughters did.”

__

“This is not an expansion,” Dany waves aside Arthur’s concerns. “Westeros will never be under the Empire, and Essos has no interest in Westeros besides trade. They will be the Seven Kingdoms, rebuilt as one, wealthier than ever imaginable, peace reigning as it never has before. If the prophesied war of Dawn is to come, we must control armies like this continent has never seen.”

__

It is then that Lyanna pushes her chair back, heavy wood screeching against the stone floor. She takes Elaena’s hand, who pouts, and leaves the room with only a beseeching look sent to Jon over her shoulder. Arthur makes to stand, but Jon halts him with a hand. He will speak to his own mother in due time.

__

Aegon rests his elbows on the table. “Very well, Jacaerys. We will style you a Conqueror. On one condition.”

__

Jon cocked his head. “What might that be?”

__

Aegon’s face was set in stone. “That you leave Tywin Lannister to me, brother. Leave him to me.”  
.  
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The setting of the sun swirls in the pinks of freshly bloomed roses mingling with the purple of bruises sustained in battle.The scent of the sea is never far on Dragonstone, the salty froth crashing and bathing the rocky crags of the island, demanding to be heard. Dragons soared overhead, others on land feasting on a beached whale.

__

All of that was visible from the black sand beaches closest to the castle. This was the same beach they had landed on years ago, Jon recalled, on the backs of Snow and Balerion alike. 

__

_Do you enjoy this place?_ Rhaegar asked, when they had toured the towns, the fisheries, and the hatchery. _It was raised and shaped by sorcerers, through spells no longer known to us. It is the very edge of the Empire, the bridge from Valyria to Westeros._

__

Jon had liked it immensely, immediately feeling connected to it. It might be drab to the normal eye, but it was drowning in magic and life. He felt at peace here. The sight of his mother barefoot in the water, a dragon hatchling with a fish in it’s mouth hopping around her, was joyous. It’s little dragonfire singed her dress, and she laughed, splashing it with water until it fluttered away.

__

_Good,_ Rhaegar noted, entranced by the sight Jon merely found amusing. _I have claimed it for our House. I mean for it to be yours, you and your wife to come. The first Prince and Princess of Dragonstone._

__

That was surprising, but when Jon had explored the castle to find a table painted with a raised map of Westeros on it, a large window from which the port of Duskendale could just barely be seen, it planted a seed in his mind. A seed that grew and grew and grew.

__

His mother stands on that very beach now, the wind stretching her long hair out behind her. Her arms are bare, her shoulders shivering. Lyanna Stark is a Northerner, so she is not likely to be cold. Only upset.

__

“Mama,” Jon murmurs behind her, giving her warning of his presence so that she can dry her tears. “Have I disappointed you?”

__

“Never,” she shakes her head, and takes his hand. They allow the silence to reign over them for a time until she sighs and breaks it.

__

“You never said anything before.”

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He hums. “About what?” She gives him a meaningful look. For some reason, he feels defensive.

__

“You’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you?”

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“If you mean did I want Father to die so I could avenge his death? No, Muna,” he huffs perhaps unfairly. 

__

She looks hurt, and Jon regrets his words. “Do not speak to me thus, my love. I am still your mother, and your father was my partner in life. I grieve him in ways I pray you never understand.”

__

He hangs his head and apologizes quickly, taking a step away from her. Their interlocked hands fall apart.

__

“Yes, I suppose I have wanted this,” he confesses, meeting her wide eyes. Sweet Elaena has nearly those same eyes, the addition of lavender flecks scattered across grey just the same as the delicate freckles of her face. “But is that my fault? Father sent us to Winterfell for a reason, did he not? He gifted me this Keep for a purpose, did he not? He loved you well but he married you for a prophecy, and he always meant for me to turn my eyes towards Westeros, to raise the three-headed dragon across the kingdoms. I never asked for Father’s ambitions to rest upon me, but they do all the same. Tell me, then, why I should not want Westeros. I was bred to. That I embrace it is not damning.”

__

His words are harsh, he knows. But he cannot have his mother questioning him now. In his own way, he is pleading for her support, the support she’s never withheld before. With all her virtues, Lyanna has always wished for a simple and happy life for him. He wants the latter part too, for him and Daenerys, but his destiny demands blood. 

__

She’s realizing that for the first time. He is breaking her heart, he thinks with alarm.

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“No, I suppose it is not,” she agrees, the fight gone out from her, looking back over the water once more. 

__

A discomfort endures, until she speaks in a faraway tone. “I remember the first time we came here. I did not think much of this rock, a small and drab place, but you and Rhaegar loved it so. That was the first time I truly saw how much you were your father’s son, after years of you being just mine. And after that, when we arrived in Valyria. The way you and Daenerys enthralled one another, always sneaking off together...I was not raised in a manner where family weds family. It frightened me to see love grow between you two, and you felt my discomfort plain enough. You two were stubborn, though. When she came to me, asking for lessons with a bow, determined to win my affection and blessing, when you, my only boy, came to me beseeching that I love your aunt as if she were my own daughter. I could not refuse you or your beautiful wife then, for such is the Targaryen way, and there is nothing I cannot learn to live with for your sake.”

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She exhales, shoulders dropping. “I know I cannot ask you to give up this quest, my son. You have already decided upon it, and the two of you will see it done. I will not give protests I know to be useless.”

__

He moves to touch her but she steps away, making her way back to the castle instead. Before she leaves his earshot, she turns over her shoulder. “All I ask is that you temper your ambition before you fight a war, Jacaerys, for you lack an heir to succeed you. Ambition ended my brother’s line. Do not make me live in a world where yours has ended as well.”

__

_I will make you any promise you ask for, even though I do not know if I can keep it,_ Jon thinks to himself. But he does not say it.  
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__

Arthur pours for them both, after dismissing the serving boy who had given them strange looks upon finding Arthur in her chambers. Lyanna is affronted, for she even has a robe on over her nightgown.

__

The idea that having a man in her chambers would be seen as inappropriate causes a hysterical laugh to bubble up inside her. It reminds her once more that her lover is gone, her beloved naught but ashes of who once was an Emperor. Only when Arthur places a hand on her shoulder does she realize that she is shaking, and stops herself.

__

“I know, Empress,” Arthur sympathizes, and Lyanna supposes he must. They all grieve him. So then why is she the only one who felt aghast, terrified at Jacaerys and Daenerys’s proposal this day? Are only mothers able to feel so strongly, to sense death coming?

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“If you know, then why do you encourage my children to throw themselves to battle? Why do you run to your dooms despite it all?”

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Arthur’s face betrays nothing. He splits a blood orange between them and she accepts half of it as a peace offering. 

__

The fire flickers and she peers into it, trying to find whatever encaptures Targaryens and Valyrians in the tendrils. She sees nothing and gives herself a headache for her troubles.

__

“Their Graces Jacaerys and Daenerys wish to make names for themselves,” Arthur starts, and Lyanna impatiently interrupts to argue, but he puts his hands up to calm her.

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“Let me speak, Empress,” he cajoles her, and she relents. “I do not have the power with words Rhaegar had, may he rest. But you cannot doubt I love your family as my own. Just as you, I was not born among these people, and I have never truly been one of them. There has always been much and more that you and I do not understand of their ways, has there not? I did not understand why Rhaegar wished to wed you when his good and gracious wife had given him children already - but when you arrived, I saw that you completed some part of his heart, and I could not imagine his life without you. I understood not why he sent you and Prince Jacaerys away but not his other children, nor the prophecy he relied upon for guidance - but when I stood on the edge of the Wall and saw the undead for the first time, I knew his actions to be true.”

__

He gives her a meaningful look, and she pours a glass of water for herself. “I mean to say, these Targaryens make their own rules. Some genius, some vile. If we love them, we must trust them. Even when it is difficult.”

__

She nurses her goblet thoughtfully. “It is not the same when you are a mother, Ser Dayne.”

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“I imagine not,” he agrees, and discards the remains of the wine in the fire to revive it. It was a shit vintage anyways.

__

“They have no heirs,” she comments after reflection. He shrugs.

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“That is strange, for the servants say there is no lack of trying.” They both wince at that thought. “Perhaps there will be none from them, it is not unheard of. Princess Elaena must suffice, I suppose, for it seems unlikely you carry another.”

__

Lyanna curls up on her seat. “I have been drinking my moon tea. I am glad of that, for I could not birth another who would not know their father. It is devastating enough that Elaena is still a child.”

__

“He loved her enough in ten years for an entire lifetime, Your Grace. He was devoted to her, more than he had been to any of his other children, that cannot be denied.”

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“He loved Elaena because he was allowed to love her,” Lyanna heaves, tired of this fable of favoritism. Arthur tilts his head and gestures for her to go on. “Rhaenys was the firstborn in a time of strife, and her mother’s child in truth, for Elia thought she might be her only. Aegon was a boy heir during the wars, and he was forced to grow up before his years. Jacaerys—well, he was Rhaegar’s Promised Prince, for whatever that was worth. After all of that, Elaena was simply a babe, a priceless reward following all our agony.”

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“Perhaps,” Arthur hums, “but that you are her mother enlarged his affection, I would say.”

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“Perhaps,” Lyanna repeats, trapped under the weight of grief.

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“And there is Princess Daenerys,” Arthur trails off. She did not bother to address that matter. He knew as well as she did that although Rhaegar had treated Daenerys as if she was his own seed, some part of him could not separate her from the memory of their shared parents and the tragic deaths they had befallen, early deaths Rhaegar blamed himself for to a measure. He dearly loved his sister, but it also saddened him to look upon her or Viserys and see his failures. There was a melancholy ingrained in her husband, a self-flagellation he could never quite escape.

__

And anyways, Lyanna’s mind remains on her youngest child.

__

Yes, Rhaegar had loved their little girl partially because she was _theirs._ As a babe, her crib had remained in their rooms, until Lyanna grew tired of the wetnurses walking in on the two of them in various positions of lovemaking. If she wished to take her morning ride in their bed, then that was their business alone, she had complained to him. As a compromise, Elaena was instead brought to them first thing in the morning, after the maids ensured the coast was clear. No year passed without Rhaegar commissioning a new portrait of his youngest and framing it in their chambers, or sending for the finest of materials for her dresses, along with toys for her play. Once Elaena displayed slight interest, Rhaegar taught her the harp on his knee, and she was now very skilled at the instrument. 

__

_The favourite,_ Viserys would taunt her through bared teeth, and he gladly went to wed his Dornish Princess when the time came. He despised sharing opportunities to gain Rhaegar’s rare approval. Rhaenys and Aegon were both married soon after, to great happiness for the former and equal misery for the latter.

__

Lyanna shudders. 

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“My little girl has the affection of more than just her father,” Lyanna confides in the knight, and Arthur worries at his bottom lip.

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“Also her mother, and her brother,” he lists, “but I think it is her other brother that you speak of.”

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“He dotes on her,” Lyanna says darkly. “When Prince Aegon’s wife had not yet perished in the birthing bed it was another matter, but now he is unwed once more. And my Elaena is still a little girl.”

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“Perhaps he is merely fond of her. Prince Aegon lost his wife and son in one swoop, and I know the loss hurt him deeply. Your daughter is the loveliest of comforts, the Maiden made flesh if I ever saw.”

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Lyanna does not share his optimism. “We all share in the grief over the Prince’s losses, that is without doubt, but do you know what I saw between them on her last name day?”

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Arthur shakes his head to indicate he does not.

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“I sought to bring her to see the new riding leathers I had commissioned for her, and found both Elaena and Aegon, together in Queen Mother Rhaella’s memorial garden. They did not see me. She was sitting on his knee, fawning over some gift necklace he claimed was from the Red Temples, smiling and laughing. He took it from her hands and put it on her himself, a great big ruby at the center, and when she thanked him—he took her chin with his fingers and _kissed her mouth._ Only a chaste thing, I grant you, and he let her go on her way afterwards, but it was a kiss nonetheless.”

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Arthur looks uneasy. “What did you do, Empress?”

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Lyanna looks down at her hands. “I have flown on the backs of dragons and hunted great beasts without a single tremor finding me, but after that? I was shaking like a leaf in the wind, Ser. I went to find my husband and he could hardly calm me. When I told him what I had seen, however, he assured it was only affection between siblings many years apart. I suppose I did not want to believe otherwise, so I put it out of my mind—but in truth, it has never left me. I keep Elaena with me, and they have not been alone since then, I know that much.”

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“Yes, the Emperor only ever saw the best in those he loved. Does Prince Jacaerys know?”

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She gives him a reproachful look. Jacaerys was unbelievably protective of his sister. If she mentioned even an inkling of her suspicions, the brothers would come to blows. 

__

Arthur leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. There are hints of grey laced in the brown now, although he remains handsome. Him one and fifty, her an even forty, she can barely believe it at times.

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“Perhaps she might come to Westeros, then,” Arthur suggests. “Prince Aegon will remain in Valyria, for Princess Rhaenys can only be his regent for so long. The distance...the distance will be good.”

__

“Yes, that may be the way,” she agrees, “but Elaena loves her home. She will not come easy, especially if she is only here to be sold into an advantageous marriage.” She spits the last part, and if surprised by Arthur’s chuckle.

__

“Forgive me, Empress, but I remember another bride who did not come easy. She was also adored by her father and brothers, I seem to recall. There was even a moment when she made her way to where her grooms knights had gathered for the purpose of outshooting us all with her bow to make a point. And look at the outcome, despite all her protests.”

__

Lyanna groans, “yes, yes, I was a smug little shit who railed against the institution of marriage, I will never live it down. But the affection that grew between Rhaegar and I is the exception, not the tradition. Good men are a rarity, you cannot deny this.”

__

“Oh, I do not deny it. But Princess Jacaerys would never allow her to suffer at the hands of a cruel husband. He would risk even a kingdom to kill such a man.”

__

She mulls over that, closing her heavy eyelids for a moment. It is getting late, and she rises for bed.

__

“Empress,” Arthur says, rising with her, “I will depart. But before I go let me say.” She gives him silent permission. “Prince Jacaerys, _Jon_ is a good man. There lies Rhaegar in him, but there is also your brothers. The Empress Elia. Gods forgive my pride, I see myself and my sister Ashara in him at times as well. But most of all there is you. There is a stubborn man full of honor and pride, mischief and willfulness, loyalty and devotion. He understands respect and he listens to others—he might have flown off on the back of his beast the moment he heard of his father’s death, but he waited and consulted with his family instead. Most of all, he is able. All he asks now is that you trust him. That you love him, support him. You are his greatest support, Lyanna.” The use of her given name is an intimacy Arthur rarely uses. “Do not make him go alone. He needs you more than ever.”

__

Ser Arthur’s words strike her heart, and it provokes a sob from her throat. She lets him gather her in his arms to embrace her, a comfort she feared she would never have again, and when she weakly nods her assent against his chest he steps away from her.

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Tomorrow, she will seek out her son.  
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“Speak to me, husband mine,” Daenerys whispers to the back of his neck as she wraps her arms around him. He grunts, removing his boots.

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“What is there to say? Aegon and Ser Arthur are prepared to join us, as is your brother Viserys which brings our dragon count to four, and Princess Arianne is as amenable as her pride allows her to be. The Velaryons and Redwynes have both joined our cause, giving us the indisputable advantage at sea. The Riverlands are ours, the Northern lords will starve out the ironborn, and we will soon know of the Gardener loyalty. I would say our position is strong, my love.” He gets up to fasten Dark Sister to her hook on the wall, and looks over a letter from Lord Ned Dayne on his desk. He will pass it onto Arthur come morning, for it contains news of Starfall and Aunt Ashara.

__

“Yes,” Dany says indulgently. “But your mother does not approve.” 

__

Jon does not look at her. “I did not expect her to.” He reads the letter over again. His wife waits.

__

He sighs and turns, leaning against the desk. If she wants a conversation, him delaying is pointless. And on their bed sits a vision in a sheer nightgown of Myrish lace, hair undone, flowing and glowing in the firelight, and her eyes are large with hope; how can he deny himself the comfort she willingly gives him? 

__

“It hurts you nonetheless,” she says in a small voice. He shrugs. “Of course. I dislike upsetting her, but there is naught to be done.” She opens his arms and he strips his doublet and shirt off before joining her. 

__

“She is a good woman,” Dany says, “and you are a good son. But she is not a Targaryen, even though she loved your father better than any other woman could, and so it is natural that she cannot truly understand.”

__

“Muna understands that we must make war, for blood rights are the way of her people. My people too, in truth. It is the conquest she does not agree with, for she sees it as a folly of our pride.”

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“She has a mother’s heart,” Daenerys says, with some pain. Motherhood is a difficult topic for her—four years of trying and all they have to show for it is one stillborn babe buried in the ground. _Daenys was meant to be her name._ He nods his agreement.

__

“My mother is afraid to lose me. And you.” He says it aloud more for himself than her. There is no guarantee he will survive what is to come. “She worries because we have no heirs to succeed us.” He gives her an apologetic look and searches her face for any effect of his words.

__

Dany’s lower lip trembles. 

__

“Oh, Jace,” she cries, allowing him to cradle her. She spends herself for a few minutes and he wipes her tears. “Jacaerys, you know I have wished for nothing more than to give you babes. I have tried so hard to do everything the maesters tell me, drinking those disgusting tonics every morning and evening. At times I wish you would simply find a mistress and legitimize your bastards, so that this pain may end and we might have joy once more.”

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“Never, Dany,” Jon interrupts her savagely, “I will never have a bastard. You are my other half.” In private, he’d considered what she said. It would remove the pressure on them both, her most of all, but he had not been able to stomach the thought for long. It was dishonorable. The only other solution was to take a second wife, but that would be cruel for his heart was ruled by another. Also he would have had to request permission to do so from his father, who would have been wroth to see his own sister disrespected.

__

He sweeps up from their bed then and retrieves a box from the drawer where he moved it. Wordlessly, he opens it in front of Dany, who gasps at the sight. The candlelight makes the gemstones sparkle and glint, and the silver of it shines.

__

_Jon touches the necklace that hangs from the branch. It is marked by dirt and grime but even still, it is clearly a fine piece imbued with the greatest of care. Emeralds and sapphires are interchanged, wrought into the pure silver. It is heavy in his hand._

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_“There is magic in it, protection and binding love. Take it, it should not be locked away with me any longer. She would not want that.”_

__

_Later, Rhaegar told him the necklace once belonged to a sorceress named Shiera, a Blackfyre so beautiful men killed themselves or each other for her._

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_“Perhaps I’ll give it to Mama,” he thinks aloud. Rhaegar gives him a knowing look._

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_“Keep that away until you know what it is to love a woman. Save it for an auspicious night you share with your wife, for magic such as Shiera’s should not be given or received lightly.”_

__

“Where did you get this?” Dany asks, tracing the necklace patterns.

__

“It belonged to Bloodraven’s lover long ago. She wielded men’s hearts the same as you wield mine,” he told her, “I meant to give it to you another night, but I am glad I waited. Know this, love of my life—your lot is thrown in with mine now and forever. Tomorrow we will announce ourselves King and Queen, husband and wife before all Seven Kingdoms. Children or no,” he takes a deep breath, “children or no, our line will live on into history. But do not ask me to dishonor our marriage. I will not for all of the armies in Westeros.”

__

They share a quiet embrace, no part of them not touching. He fastens the necklace around her, and when they touch an invisible energy flows between them. 

"How do you know our line will live on?" she whispers wondrously to the air around them.

"I simply know."

__

_”Will there be another Targaryen Emperor?” Jon asked, after the silence had stretched on. “No,” Bloodraven said, “but there will be Targaryen Kings and Queens for hundreds of years.”_

__

In the morning, the household watches fourscore ravens fly off into the mist, heralds attached to their little legs with the three-headed dragon wax seal on each one. When the sight of them has disappeared, cloaked by the clouds, Jon turns to the small crowd behind.

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“Westeros should see dragons this day. The four of us will fly overhead as far as Pinkmaiden, and return on the morrow.” 

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“Shall I not fly as well? For five is better than four, and these Westerosi will think it a more godly number,” Elaena pouts.

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“Elaena,” his mother exclaims, shocked.

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“I am no longer a child, mother,” she insists, “and Meleys is big enough. Perhaps only to Rosby and back, but she can do it.”

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“Dear sister, you certainly are still a child,” Aegon laughs, and Jon does not laugh but he does agree. Lyanna shoots Aegon a glare that Jon raises an eyebrow at.

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“Others young as me have ridden,” Elaena argues, wolfblooded despite her Valyrian looks, “Lady Rhaenyra rode Syrax at tourneys when she was seven! I might take my bow, for I am a better shot than any boy my age.”

__

“Indeed, you are a very special girl,” Viserys mocks. Princess Arianne pinches him and he settles back down.

__

“You will not ride, Elaena,” Jon stops this conversation right there, and Daenerys steps in, “You will not ride, Elaena, nor will you fight, for you are to be the heir. You will remain here on Dragonstone with the Empress Mother, and she will teach you in the arts of correspondence and diplomacy.”

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“What will _mother_ teach me about diplomacy,” she whines, and their family laughs. It is good that they can share some humor, which they have not done in a long while.

__

It is what father would have wanted, Jon believes.

__

“Wait,” Lyanna stops them when all have departed but him and Daenerys and Arthur. They all look at her quizzically.

__

“I know,” she says, wringing her hands, “I know I have shown doubts. I still have them, but there is some I wish to say before you fly. Those ravens you sent—those ravens announced you as a King and Queen. I was born to a King and Queen, sister to another, and I married an Emperor so I believe I know a thing or two about ruling.”

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“Yes, Mother, and we will rely on your wealth of experience,” Daenerys rushes to agree, taking Lyanna’s hands in her own. She calls Lyanna Mother as a token of affection, one Jon had suggested when they were first trying to melt her heart enough that it would accept their love.

__

“Thank you, sweet daughter,” Lyanna replies, kissing her on both cheeks. “You are kind to say so. And perhaps I will never completely feel at ease knowing that the enemies to House Targaryen are plentiful but I have decided. I have decided that there is no place for doubts from within the family. Allow me to be the first to pledge my allegiance to you two, to King Jacaerys and Queen Daenerys, First of their Names, Protectors of all Seven Kingdoms.”

__

She bows to the floor, her head bent in prostration. The sight of his proud beautiful mother on one knee takes Jon aback. He has never seen her bow before, apart from years ago when they first arrived in Winterfell and she bowed to Brandon. Brandon did not leave her there for long, and neither will he.

__

“Muna,” he gives her both of his hands to lift her to her feet, and embraces her when she blesses his cheeks with the same kisses she just gave Danaerys.

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“Your mother loves you, and you have the makings of a great King,” she whispers in his ear just for him. “But you must see it as a responsibility, rather than your due. Else the people will never love you.”

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“I will be a man of honor,” he swears, and takes his wife’s hand. “We will uplift the people of Westeros to heights never known. Together.”

__

They ascend to the heavens together, Snowstorm and Meraxes, Syrax and Vhagar, and depart for their respective destinations. Vhagar loops around soon-to-be besieged Storm’s End, Syrax to Bitterbridge where Prince Garlan Gardener watches the skies, Meraxes over the Stony Sept, and Snowstorm screeching over Harrenhal.

__

Sansa lies in the childbed, but Crown Prince Willas brings her news of the announcement and she turns her paralyzingly blue eyes onto him. _Will you set aside your crown for me_ , she seems to beg, and when his daughter Aster is placed in his arms, he can only unequivocally answer _yes._ The Gardener banners are called and Lannisport seals it’s gates shut with molten bronze that would keep any invader out. To dragonfire, however, it might as well be straw.  
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The conquest is the matter of a year and an anointing in Oldtown, although the losses are nearly too great to bear. Viserys. Arthur. Ashara, whose heart stopped when her brother’s did. _Snowstorm._ Uncle Benjen. Ser Oswell. Faithful Lord Hoster Tully.

__

There were other deaths that House Targaryen rejoiced in: Tywin, Kevan, and all of Lannisport burned under Vhagar’s wrath. No hero's death would be granted to any lion, even when they pleaded that they had only meant to force an accord on Rhaegar, that Robert’s bloodlust was not their doing. 

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_Your father’s sword,_ goldenhanded Jaime had ridden out to return to Aegon. Blackfyre was wrapped in Lannister crimson, a clear message. _We will gladly join your ranks against Robert and the enemy in the North, so long as House Lannister is spared._

__

Aegon hummed and suggested a duel instead. But when Jaime withdrew his sword using the left hand he was clearly proficient in, Aegon simply declared Vhagar his champion and cooked Jaime in his shining armor. Though the gold of the plates were welded into his skin, his false hand remained intact, and Aegon gifted that to the Reynes of Castamere when he declared them the new Lords of the Rock.

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Daenerys kept with her the Lannister dwarf for she found him useful, which they all indulged her in. 

__

Robert’s death had been entwined with Arthur’s, the great knight limping away from the ruined corpses of seven men to look over one last sunset before his death knell rang. Balon, Rodrik, Maron, and Victarion lost their heads on Pyke, although Euron had eluded them. Lady Asha now wore the Driftwood Crown, a ruler who understood how precarious her title was and would not serve them a hint of disloyalty while Theon remained their prisoner. It did not matter, truly—they had broken Pyke, repopulating Harlaw and Great Wyk with Northern husbands for every widow for good measure. 

__

Euron’s escape was why they were here. Why he was here, Vhagar and Meraxes hovering next to him.

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“What did it look like before,” Aegon asks loudly. The wind rush is so overwhelming without the normal barrier that they can hardly hear despite their proximity. Below them, a grand host of 175,000 men from across Westeros huddled, armed with the dragonglass swords and spears Lyanna had thought to fashion nearly twelve years ago. 25,000 men from each kingdom was all they demanded, for a war that could end them all fast approached, and no sooner had the proud once-Kings bent the knee than they sent the word to their banners.

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“Like a wall,” he replies flatly. “A great wall made of ice.”

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Balerion huffs beneath him, blowing smoke and steam from his great nose.

__

Snowstorm had fallen beyond the Wall when a Wall still existed, before Euron had sounded the horn of Joramun. Jacaerys had barely lived, had barely _wanted_ to live after the loss of his dragon, spending a moon among the wildlings who nursed him back to health. He thought to name Aegon King instead, anyone else, for a Targaryen without a dragon was a pathetic excuse for a ruler. No one was more surprised than him when he walked along the lands of Winterfell with his mother and the Black Dread found him, unforgiving eyes determined. His father’s dragon was a beast like no other, and when Jacaerys whispered words to his impenetrable scales before mounting him they were words of gratitude and awe.

__

“Will they come tonight?” Daenerys lowers Meraxes’s head so she may speak to her husband.

__

“Yes, in the hour of the wolf,” he says confidently, and turns his gaze to the sky.

__

The full moon is cradled within the Ice Dragon. That was what Bran told him to await, when he returned to Bloodraven’s cave only to find the boy he thought dead. 

__

_I will restore you in Winterfell, cousin_ Jon had dropped to his uneasy knees and promised. Bloodraven was even further reduced to bones than he had been before and death was in the air, even Jacaerys who had no magic could guess. Weeks, perhaps.

__

_No,_ Bran spoke, unmoving legs stretched in front of him. _My place is here. But I am not the only Stark who lives._

__

Arya, he’d thought and said.

__

_No,_ Bran eyes went alight, _no._ It was Rickon he meant, and Rickon who sat with Lyanna in Winterfell now, while Arya was below on a fine mare at the front of the Northern vanguard. Lord Ned Dayne was beside her, Dawn strapped to his back, the falling star quartered with the winter wolf on their breastplates.

__

The moonlight glints from below, catching what might have looked like glass clambering over the remnants of the Wall.

__

Vhagar roars. Then Meraxes. Then Balerion. Cries climb from below them as one, and even from a height, they can see the rider who carries a sword aflame galloping forward, the weapon raised high above the head of it’s bearer.

__

Jacaerys tightens his fists on Balerion’s reigns and takes one last breath of the frigid crackling air before the three heads of the dragons begin their descent.

__

**Author's Note:**

> anyways let me know what you think :)


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